CALL OF DUTY: Obstacle Course
by ArtisticAbandon
Summary: Dick's a fighter. Always has, always will. He just never imagined he'd be fighting for his life, and for others, in the middle of a hospital under siege...and dealing with bomb threats, homicidal gunmen, stubborn doctors, & hostages. Sequel to 'High Noon'
1. In The Deep

**For setrinan and CSpark. You both know why.**_  
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**_Title:_** Obstacle Course  
**_Author:_** SahRae Hyjo  
**_Series/Sequel:_** Call Of Duty, one day and a few hours after the last chapter of High Noon. (I'm assuming at this point that you've read High Noon. If you haven't, I can only hope I've explained things enough that you'll be okay.)

_**Summary:**_ Dick's a fighter; always has been, always will be. But getting back on his feet and recovering from his injuries after his run-in with Diablo Simmons might be the least of his worries...  
**_Disclaimer:_** I'm still broke and they're still not mine. While all non-DC characters are my creation, they're free to a good home once I'm done with them. Any and all lyrical excerpts and/or quotes used from here on in are not mine either. Just so you know. And don't flame my absolutely glorious betas – Char, Ellen, and CSpark – for the mistakes found herein. I've worked very hard to get them in here:-))  
**_Archive:_** Go ahead! It's all available; just let me know where.  
**_Rating:_** PG is for Positively Ghastly, right? No? Then I guess its T overall, for some light swearing. It might vary in a particular chapter, but I'll let you know when.  
**_Feedback:_** Heck, yes! Sweet nectar, and all that. Even just a few words will brighten up my day.  
**_Warnings:_** Hmm... None for this fic. But see my author profile if you want to know why its been so long since I've posted and some generic warnings about that.

**_Notes:_** For the record, a series wasn't in my original plans. But no one, it seems, told my muse that. High Noon was _supposed_ to be a stand-alone. Guess this just goes to show you what persistent pestering from reviews and PMs by readers for a sequel will do... :D That said, while I'd written this some time ago, this'd _never_ have seen the light of day if setrinan and CSpark hadn't been so persistent of late in their feedback. This is for you, girls.**  
**Oh, and bold/underline/italics are emphasis, and 'italics' are thoughts.

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**CALL OF DUTY**  
**Obstacle Course**

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**1. In The Deep**

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**Don't you just hate it when you wake up to find out you've been asleep?

I've always hated waking up unexpectedly. See, I've never liked to be caught unawares, about anything, and the personality trait extended to my sleeping patterns.

But I've hated even more waking up with a start, and feeling like I was still asleep anyway.

Like I did now.

It took me about five minutes of chasing my thoughts in circles before I realized that, yes, I _was_ awake, my eyes _were_ open, and I'd spent five minutes staring at that tiny crack in the corner of my bedroom ceiling like it was the answer to all my problems. It took me another few minutes to figure out why it was so hard to think:

Drugs.

Hmph, better make that a _lot_ of drugs.

Which also explained why I wasn't feeling much of anything...except for feeling very light, and light-headed too. But at least I definitely wasn't in pain. _'Nope, no pain here._' I shifted slightly on the bed and reconsidered that thought. _'Okay, so I am in pain, but I'm also so high that I simply don't care._' That probably should have worried me, on some level. Which is to say that it probably would've, if I could've gathered enough coherent thought to bother with worrying.

I shifted position again, trying to figure out where I was hurting and what was still working. But everything was too distant, hurting only in vague, unspecified ways that were too nebulous to pin down. Just enough to let me know things were there, but not so much that I could do something about them.

Not that there was anyone around to do anything for me. _'Nope, I'm definitely alone. Can't see anyone..._' Of course, I probably should check the rest of the room too...but that would mean moving my head, wouldn't it? _'Nah. Too much work._' So instead I let myself simply lay there on the bed, stared at the ceiling a little more, and chased my own thoughts around my head. Joy. _'What a way to spend a morning, lonely as anything and...as high...as...a..._

_  
_**  
**_...kite._'

_'Damn._' I must've fallen asleep again, despite my instinctively not wanting to. The good old internal clock told me that much. It was at least a few hours after I was last awake...but I was still hazy as to whether it was the same day or not. Heck, it could've been a week later for all I knew. And if there's one thing I hated, it had to be knowing I'd lost time but not being sure exactly how much I'd lost.

Like I said, I didn't particularly like being caught unawares. By anything.

On the other hand, it probably could've been worse. My head was clear now. Well, clearer, anyway. Which meant that whatever drugs they had me on, the dosage hadn't been repeated and the damn things were finally starting to wear off. As far as I was concerned, the sooner they were out of my system, the better. I liked my pain too much to want its complete absence from my life...and my body.

Oh, don't get me wrong. I wasn't a masochist or anything. I certainly didn't get off on things like being in pain or being tied up and held hostage. (Although to be fair, if I _was_ that way inclined, being in the vigilante business was probably one of the better ways to sate that kind of urge.) But I could still think of plenty of reasons for being glad to feel pain.

Foremost of which would be the reason that, as cliché as it sounds, pain _does_ let you know that you're alive, still breathing, still _here_. Trust me, I've spent enough time in sensory deprivation tanks to prove the truth of that. And I've had plenty of days of late where I'd needed my pain, needed that extra layer of sensation to ground me in reality. Heck, I think I've had a whole...what was it now? Three weeks? Yeah, three weeks of those types of days. Day in, day out. It never stopped.

_'Gods. It's more like three weeks of nothing._' Three weeks of me lying on my back and waiting for my body to heal. Three weeks of mentally chasing myself in circles, wondering what went wrong to put me here. Three weeks of absolute hell.

Oh, what I would _give_ to be able to walk again. To get out of this room and out of this _life_, to feel the sun on my face and the wind in my hair, to simply _do_ things for myself, the little things, the things I didn't realize were important to me until I couldn't do them. Well, not without assistance...or without Alfred, which was pretty much the same thing. Things like raising myself up in bed, getting myself dressed every morning, or like privacy in the bathroom when I did my... um, yeah.

Which reminded me, I really had to talk to Leslie about what I was allowed to do. For crying out loud, it had been three weeks since I'd first landed in the hospital. Surely I could do a few things on my own by now. I swear, I could practically _feel_ my leg muscles atrophying the longer I was forced to lie here and "recover". And, for the record, I was pretty certain that it wasn't my injuries that were _forcing_ me to spend all my time on my back. _'Now that would be too simple, wouldn't it?'_ No, it was more like something tall, impeccably dressed, and speaking with a British accent. I was gonna have to resort to more drastic––

"Ah, you're awake."

More startled at the voice breaking into my thoughts than I cared to admit, I turned my head towards its source. Ah, of course. Dr. Leslie Thompkins. _'How on earth did she get within three feet of me without my noticing?'_ Although it probably shouldn't have startled me to have her so close, seeing as I _was_ on drugs. People had a habit of being able to sneak up on me when I was high. _'It's so not fair._'

Oh. _'Hang on. Better greet the Doctor, Grayson._'

"Hey, Les," I greeted, smiling as warmly as I could. Not my usual greeting I admit, but I could – and would – blame the drugs for that. Actually, it wasn't all that hard to be friendly. Like I'd said, there were the drugs, for one thing. Couldn't stay angry if I tried – or wanted. And besides, her's was the first face I could clearly recall seeing since...well, I didn't know when, to be honest, but the memory that popped into mind was that physical therapy session with Bruce. _'Wait a moment. That's strange... I remember the talk we had, but not how the PT session finished..._'

More motion out of the corner of my eye broke me out of my thoughts, and I pushed the matter aside for later consideration. _'C'mon, focus Grayson, and leave the woolgathering for later._'

I watched silently as Leslie walked round to stand at the end of the bed, flicking through my recent medical history and muttering to herself all the while. She was too far away to make out her words clearly, but it sounded like it was something to do with Bruce and his manners. I didn't bother to pay more attention after that. As long as it wasn't me she was cursing out, I didn't care who she was talking about.

It took her a while to flick through the leaf of papers that was my makeshift "chart" at the Manor. It was thicker than it usually was when I was injured, thanks to a certain Diablo Simmons. And I've been reliably informed (courtesy of Amy Rohrbach) that he was now rotting in a Blüdhaven jail and awaiting both his trial and a time that Leslie pronounced me well enough to handle one.

_'Speaking of Leslie..._' I frowned to myself and narrowed my attention when I saw the way she was looking at the last few sheets of my chart. The look on her face was...well, one I'd define as "worried", usually because it worried me too. It wasn't exactly a comforting sight to see that look when you were the idiot lying on the bed being worried over. If this counted as "lying". I wasn't entirely sure it did. This was more like "reclining", if you asked me, especially with all the pillows Alfred kept stuffing behind my back.

Finally, Leslie looked up and caught my expectant gaze. "Well, Dick," she began, "I see you've had an interesting few days."

_'I have?'_ News to me, but then, I had the feeling I'd been drugged for most of them.

I didn't say anything, I swear, but Leslie answered my mental question anyway. "You don't remember, do you?"

I shook my head. "Last I recall clearly," I replied, concentrating a little to make sure the drugs didn't make me slur the words, "I was talking to Bruce during a PT session." Where we talked about the words he used in the hospital, back when he was trying to wake me up out of that coma I'd apparently been in. "That was right after the guys visited for a bit." And where they'd broken a priceless vase in an impromptu wrestling match with Tim, if I recalled correctly.

"I see," she replied noncommittally even as she made a few quick scribbles on the chart's last page.

Now, it might have just been me, but I've never liked it when doctors said phrases like that. _Especially_ when it was about me and my health, physically or mentally. It's always made me wonder what was wrong, because I _knew_ that there was something in what I'd just said that was ringing alarm bells somewhere, even if I couldn't personally hear them, let alone understand why they were ringing in the first place. I just knew that they were ringing. _'Whoever said that anticipating something was half the fun needs to be taken out to the forest and shot._' Taking as deep a breath as I dared, I mentally gave myself a slap. _'C'mon Grayson, would you just focus already?'_ "Um, Leslie?" I prompted quietly even as I shifted my torso slightly. Again. I was almost never comfortable, these days.

"Hmm?" She looked up at me blankly for a moment, then abruptly realized what I wanted to know. I could see it flicker across her eyes. "Oh, sorry Dick. Do you remember what happened at the end of that PT session?"

I shook my head. "Not really." Poking at the memories in my head revealed the same things as always these days: big blank spots. Well, big hazy spots, anyway. And there was a big one right over the end of that PT session.

"What exactly do you remember?"

"I remember the conversation we had, and a massage he started to give me. Apart from that," I shrugged, "well, it gets a bit hazy from there on in." Right about when I told him to 'try to hold me back', as I recall. If this is the result of him actually listening to me for once...would someone please tape my mouth shut? Preferably _before_ I say things like that in the future? Before I opened my mouth wider just so I could fit the other foot in?

"Last clear memory, then?"

_'You mean besides waking up? Oooh, now that's a toughie._'I had to think a bit about that one, especially with the lingering drugs in my system. They were taking a while to wear off – not that I was exactly complaining, mind, it was just, well, a pain (pardon the pun) to think through them. "Um, I think, it's when he told me to move the leg," I answered slowly as I gradually dragged it out of my stubborn and uncooperative memory. "He...He had his hands...on my leg, I think, so it was after I threw the covers back and let Bruce have at it." I shrugged and tried to look casual. "Like I said, it gets hazy about there. Why?"

She shook her head enigmatically. "I wanted to compare versions. I met Bruce on my way up," she explained as she gave a rueful shrug.

"Ah." That said it all, _and_ explained her muttering on the way in. I'd noticed that lately Bruce had been having that effect on people. Had been ever since I got here, although it had gotten worse these last few days...and coinciding rather neatly with the pain in my leg taking longer to settle down than anyone expected. Did I think that the events were connected? Sure I did. I don't believe in coincidences. Never have; never will. Plus I knew how Batman's mind worked when one of his "soldiers" was injured. Still, I did hope for her sake that he wasn't too bad. I shifted slightly on the bed and attempted to ask casually, "So, what did he say and how long have I been out of it?"

It obviously didn't come off like I'd hoped. She frowned and focused on me again, pausing in her second perusal of my records. "Don't you know?"

I shook my head with forced cheer. "Nope. You're the first person I've seen since the PT thing with Bruce." Plus my sense of time was a little messed up – which was another reason to avoid pills and drugs and all that.

Something in what I said must've meant something to Leslie, because she looked at me with a strange expression on her face and answered quietly, "Well, if you've only just woke up, then you've been 'out of it' for about a day."

It took a moment for that to sink through the slowly clearing fog in my brain, but once it did, my eyebrows shot up. "Wow. Is that how long it's been?" I mused aloud, blinking slowly. _'Well, that would certainly explain why my sense of time is so screwed up._'

Leslie made no reply to that. Well, not an answer you could hear out loud. Her body language did all the talking for her. For a moment, she looked so steamed up about something that I thought she'd unleash a lecture for whatever-it-was on me. Thankfully, though, she managed to calm down fairly quickly, but I had the feeling that I was seeing the calm before the storm.

It was pretty clear that _someone_ was going to cop it from her in the near future. I wouldn't like to be on the receiving end whenever Leslie caught up with her victim, whoever it was. Although, to be fair, I didn't want to be Leslie either, and have to constantly deal with us Bat people when we were sick and injured. It seemed to happen all too often that she was treating at least one of us for something or other, even if this was still the first time in a few years that I'd needed her services this badly.

In the end, Leslie only sighed, rolled her eyes heavenward, and muttered words I wasn't aware that she knew. Then she was immediately back on track, regrettably so from certain points of view (specifically mine), and focused once more on my progress – or the lack thereof. "So, getting back to the reason I came, how have you been feeling lately?"

_'In other words, how have I been since the check-up I last recall?' _My answer was the same as the one I recalled giving last time. "Okay." I shrugged with my good shoulder, then deviated from the script to add, "Bored, more than anything." As soon as the words were out, I winced inside and braced myself for a lecture on what I could do to relieve said boredom, but it was really a lecture that the said boredom was what I deserved for pursuing my night-time lifestyle. For as long as I could remember, I'd always got it after telling Leslie I was bored while recovering from some injury. Then again, most injuries came from that night-time lifestyle. This lot hadn't. Which probably explained why Leslie hadn't given me that lecture yet, although I certainly wasn't about to get my hopes up that she was going to spare me it this time around. _'No chance of that. I know Leslie too well._'

Apparently, though, I didn't know her as well as I thought. She _still_ didn't give it to me. Instead, all Leslie did was nod absently and move on to the next question in her usual sequence. "And the leg?" she asked, pulling down the bed covers to check it out even as she spoke. Which wasn't as easy as it sounded. Or looked. Alfred had me so loaded up with quilts and blankets and sheets and pillows and cushions, I could start my own bedding store, I swear.

Despite feeling slightly confused and somewhat disconcerted at the lack of one of the usual lectures, I found myself relaxing a little in its absence, enough to answer this one semi-truthfully. "I still feel like I'm being stabbed there every time I try and move it." Well, I would have been feeling that way, if I weren't still a little bit high. But I also didn't tell her that the stabbing pains would come whenever someone or something touched it, which happened a lot more than I'd thought possible before the darn thing got hurt.

Leslie frowned, pulling on a pair of gloves from a pocket then lightly running the tips of her latex-covered fingers down the leg. I just barely managed to control the flinch-and-shiver that ran up and down my spine when those fingers brushed over the slowly healing scab on my thigh from the gunshot wound. I spent the rest of the time getting over that one instinctual reaction to that brief touch, and dreading what it'd be like when she actually started probing the darn thing. On the other hand, at least it wasn't the breath-stealing throbbing I'd felt when Bruce was doing that massage thing on me, right before everything went south. _'Man, I must be on really good drugs..._'

"Where, specifically, does it ache?" she asked me then. "Around the wound?"

After convincing my good hand that it was okay to let go of the sheets now, I pressed it into my right eye for a moment and then rubbed my temples, trying to stall for time. Innwardly I cursed the lingering haziness to my thoughts that made it so damn hard to think clearly. "Um... it's more of an internal pain, if that makes sense."

"_How_ internal is it? Is it in a muscle? Or is it mainly along the center of your leg?"

Taking a moment to think about it, I nodded slowly. "That last one, that sounds more like it."

"A 'central inside' pain?"

I nodded my head, more decisively this time. "Yeah, that's it exactly."

"_How_ central? You mean like your tendons? Around the bone?" she asked, a faint air of cautiousness in her manner that, quite frankly, was starting to freak me out just a little. It was like she was running down a list of questions in her head that she had to get through to get the answer, but it was an answer she didn't want to hear about and a list she didn't like asking.

What did she know that I didn't? Where were all these questions headed?

But I didn't push her on it – not right that moment anyway. Most times, I knew better than to push Leslie when she didn't want to tell me something. She usually had pretty good reasons for doing things like this to me. And I was trusting that after all these years, she would also know _me_ well enough to know when I could handle things. So I played along...for now.

Thus it was that I shook my head, knowing instinctively that what she was suggesting was wrong. "Not quite. It's more 'inside' than that. Actually, I'd almost say that it's the femur bone itself that's giving me grief." I gave Leslie a frown of my own, then. "But that doesn't make sense." As hazy as the drugs were making me, even _I_ could tell that. "I thought you told me that it was the muscles that were damaged, not the bone." Was just me, or did two plus two not always equal four? In other words: _'What on earth is going on here, Leslie? What are you so worried about?'_

Leslie shook her head slightly, ignoring my unspoken questions for the moment. "What about when you're at rest?" she pressed on, again running her fingers down the leg, slightly harder this time. "How bad is it then?"

I had time for a shrug before her fingers stopped at the wound in my thigh, before she probed the scab with latex-covered fingers while I tried not to (A) shudder or (B) jump to the ceiling. Going by my own standards, I wasn't very successful.

"It's better than moving it," I said finally, when I could breath again. Which was the truth. Anything was preferable to moving the damn thing, for all that keeping it still wasn't that much better. Keeping it still was maybe an seven on the pain scale, which was better than the usual eight to nine I got from moving it. _'Hmph. At least it's not up with what we consider a ten, eh Grayson?'_

"And now?"

Another shrug. "It's bearable." About level five or six, if I had to guess, as long as no one was touching it. But then the drugs were probably helping with that too.

"Hmm, you've definitely got some abnormal redness and swelling here... So what about stiffness?" she prompted, still frowning, but still also with that 'something strange' in her voice that was making me prick up my ears. "Have you noticed any resistance to movement?"

I frowned and searched through the mental files, absently teething the inside of my lower lip as I struggled to shift the haziness enough so that I could give her a decent answer. That peculiar note I was hearing in Leslie's warm tones was telling me something, something I couldn't quite pin down with the drugs in my system beyond the vague feeling that that more was going on here than I'd expected. That in itself was disconcerting enough to make me reconsider my usual habits of lying to doctors.

Have I mentioned that she's freaking me out with all this?

Now I just had to answer this without getting myself into extra trouble. "Maybe," I answered finally. "I...I don't know. It's definitely possible. But if it is there, it's not bad enough for me to really notice it with everything else that's been happening." _'Especially when my body's already singing a chorus of pain and I'm the one-man audience._' "Truth be told, it's mostly been too sore to move it enough that I'd notice anything along those lines." That is, not counting that little "adventure" I had about three or four days ago when I'd tried to stand, I hadn't moved it...but then I was trying not to think about that. Made the bruises hurt a little less, that way.

Nodding thoughtfully, Leslie made some notes on my records then pulled the covers back into place over my legs and up to my waist. I twitched, I admit, when the material touched the wound in my leg, but managed to keep otherwise still and silent through the whole process. Then our family doctor sat on the edge of my bed, a somber and guarded expression on her face and in her eyes. She placed the chart aside and gave me her full attention, brown eyes dark and concerned. "Dick, I'm afraid that I'll need you to have some tests and scans done on it. Today, if possible, tomorrow at the absolute latest."

A beat, a breath. She was bracing herself for something, I could tell.

It wasn't long in coming.

"And I'll need to get you to either come to the clinic or to one of the hospitals so I can get them done with the proper equipment."

I frowned at that, falling prey to the sudden feeling that things were spinning out of control. And I'd always _hated_ feeling helpless. "Leslie? What is it? What's wrong?"

Leslie, however, did not budge on her apparent decision to keep her suspicions to herself, to play this particular game with her cards held close to her chest. "Honestly? I don't know. But I intend to find out."

I said nothing in reply, but I believed her about as far as I could move the fingers on my left hand, which wasn't very far at all seeing as the entire hand was still quite firmly encased in plaster. She might not _know_, but I knew without doubt that she had some very strong suspicions. Why else would she have asked all those carefully worded questions and now decide she wanted to inflict these tests on me?

My frown deepened as my stubbornness chose that particular moment to rise up and stir in my gut. "Then what's wrong with the Cave's instruments?" While I didn't like being in the Cave's infirmary at the best of times, it did have the advantage of being closer to my room than the hospital. A _lot_ closer. And the instruments there, while a little...unorthodox, where a more advanced than anything the hospitals usually had available.

Leslie shook her head, but refused to explain further beyond: "They're not going to be enough, Dick." That, more than anything, told me that this was going to be a non-negotiable part of today's schedule – for whatever was left of today, anyway. And I knew better than to argue with Leslie when she got like this.

Though I carefully kept my face blank, I grimaced inside at the prospect of all that moving and jostling and what it would cost me, knowing that I'd be in for a few hours of hell. "Sure, whatever you need," I agreed anyway, doing my best to put on a 'happy face' about the whole thing instead of objecting like I really wanted to. All disinclinations to pain aside, I knew that what it'd cost me to get out of here should be well worth it in the end. Especially if doing the tests meant I'd be freed from virtually complete confinement to bed a little bit sooner. I was definitely all for that.

And hey, it also meant I'd at least get a change of scenery for a few hours. Especially since that drugged sleep I'd been given meant that I'd been denied the wheelchair excursion Leslie promised me after my PT session, damn them. Nothing against Alfred or the Manor, but to me, the walls of my room were just that. Walls. They surrounded me, confined me, and enclosed me. And freedom and sunlight was the other side of them.

"Great, I'll get right on it," Leslie once again interrupted my thoughts as she made one final note on the records before putting them aside. It was at this point that she left the end of my bed to settle on the chair beside it, that was situated rather conveniently close to my chest and broken hand. "Now," she said briskly, all-business once more, "what about the rest of you?"

And once again, I shrugged with my untouched shoulder. "What _about_ the rest of me? It's the same as it was last night, or whenever you last checked me over," I told her, a little testily even I did say so myself. I admit, I wanted to avoid the next part in the usual check-up, wanted to convince Leslie that it wasn't necessary. Just like I always did.

All my protests rarely worked, though.

And they didn't work this time, either. She nodded once to show she'd heard me, but tugged on the hem of my t-shirt anyway. "So, lift up that shirt and let me take a look to make sure."

_'Drat. She still had to ask._' Getting my tee up was one of the parts I hated about these upper-body check-ups. Whatever way I did it, it was always awkward. It kind of helped if I held my breath the entire time, but it was hard to get away with doing that when Leslie was so close, watching my every move and my every breath like a hawk...as if I'd disappear or take a turn for the worse the moment she took her eyes off me.

This time, I managed it by arching my lower back and using my good hand to move the shirt up over my abdomen, and then kind of alternating between tugging and wriggling to get the shirt up higher. Mainly tugging. To be honest, I still wasn't up to much wriggling...and all my _dis_honest methods never got me far with Leslie. Heck, I didn't get very far this time even though I was keeping to the more honest methods. I was pretty sure that I was blushing bright crimson when Leslie had to help me with the final little bit of the process. My ears and cheeks certainly felt hot enough to light up the room when the ordeal was finally over.

Then, as if all that exertion wasn't enough, she decided it was time to poke at the healing bullet wounds on my upper chest. "Hmm, at least your scarring won't be too bad here," she told me absently, sounding fairly pleased with the prospect. I just grunted, closed my eyes, and bit the inside of my cheek to keep myself quiet.

I still couldn't hold back from wincing as she turned her attention to my rib cage.

Personally, I didn't see the point of all this poking and prodding she did to me twice a day. Nothing changed. Three broken ribs weren't going to magically become four broken ribs in twelve hours, nor were they just as magically going to mend completely in so short a timeframe. I might be a fast healer, but there were still limits even _I_ couldn't cross. Besides, broken ribs were always an absolute bitch to heal, if you'll pardon the French. It was a process I recalled all too well from I was recovering from my undercover sojourn in Blackgate, during that chaotic mess when Gotham was "No Man's Land" after the quake. It caught a lot of people by surprise. Also caused a lot of messes that were left to the vigilantes to clean up.

And guess who let himself get volunteered to go in and clean up the mess at Blackgate? Yep, you guessed it. Yours truly. It was exactly that kind of experience that I wasn't about to forget, if only to ensure that I didn't do it again. (At least not without backup. Or plenty of bandages at Barbara's for afterwards.)

Just like I ensured that I didn't look too visibly relieved when Leslie finally took her hands away from me and my ribs. Leslie has always had a keen eye, and I knew it wouldn't be good if she saw me looking too relieved for her prodding to stop than I'd been making her think I should. Then she'd no doubt ask me why I was so relieved, and then I'd have to answer...and if there's one thing in life that you didn't do in a situation like this, it had to be outright lying to Leslie. Implicit lying wasn't always alright, but outright lying was always a definite 'no no'. But telling the truth would get me stuck in this damn bed for even longer than I already was, and I could hardly have that, could I? No. It was simply better to hide it and avoid all that mess.

Thankfully, though, I managed to hide how relieved I was to have her hands stop poking all my sore spots. And you can be sure that I'd lost no time getting my tee back down where it belonged. It was definitely a much easier and faster process than getting the stupid thing up in the first place. Once I was sort of settled again, I looked up at Leslie with my best hopeful-look painted on my face. "So," I began, "how well am I doing, Doc?"

She sighed and sat back in the chair, a quietly pensive look on her face. "Still healing, the bruising is going down, but you're progressing a lot slower than you normally do. You're normally raring to go at this point."

Who said I wasn't? It was only that I've had to learn to hide it a bit better – yeah, hide _that_ along with everything else – seeing as I was stuck in this bed for the foreseeable future no matter how energetic I was feeling. "But I _am_ raring to go," I grinned at her, flashing my best smile to hide the fidgeting that was me trying to get comfortable again. It wasn't going too well, which was another reason why I hated these never-ending check-ups. It always took me hours to get comfortable once the doctor was done with me, and it was always just as I finally got comfortable again that she came back in and messed me up all over again. Definitely a never-ending cycle that I could do without, thank-you very much.

She frowned and gave me a hard look that immediately made me pause my fidgeting. "Great. As long as it's not off that bed."

I opened my mouth to protest that, which was also as far as I got.

She cut off me off and shut my jaw with one of the sternest looks I'd ever seen. And I'd seen a lot. Let me tell ya, every villain I'd ever faced had nothing on Leslie when she was looking at me like that. She'd more than give both Alfred and Batman a run for their money. "_Don't_ give me that, Dick. I think there might have been more trauma to your leg than the initial testing indicated, and that's why I want these extra tests done. As it is, I'm suspicious enough that I can't let you move around and possibly do even _more_ damage, which could set back your recovery by _weeks_, if you're lucky. And if you're particularly unlucky, well, it might even be _months_ before I could let you back out of bed. And we both know you don't want that."

Okay, so being so soundly deflated by Leslie was never a good feeling, but at least she was honest. Right now, I knew that I needed that honesty. At least it meant that there was one person in my life who didn't believe in sugar-coating everything for "the poor invalid" stuck in the bed. It was enough to get me to nod solemnly to let her know that I'd heard her message loud and clear, however much I hadn't wanted to listen to it.

Then I realized exactly what she'd just said. "But wouldn't the physical therapy classify as moving around?" I asked cautiously. I might have only started physical therapy for my leg yesterday, or whenever it was, but those few minutes with Bruce reminded me of why I'd loved/hated the rehabilitation process every time I'd been injured. And I knew all too well that it was only going to get worse the further along the rehabilitation I advanced, as I started to push my own limits. I also knew myself well enough to know that I'd insist on pushing those limits right from the start. Like Alfred told me just two days ago, I was my own worst enemy.

Leslie nodded, her face guarded. "I know it'll delay your recovery a little, yes, but for the moment I can't allow it for your injured leg until I know more. That still doesn't let you off the hook with your respiratory exercises, though, and you can still keep the rest of your body limber." That wasn't the full story by a long shot, her whole manner told me that, but it also told me that she was withholding answers from me because she wasn't certain enough of the question in the first place. _'Which definitely makes a refreshing change from people withholding information for my "supposed" benefit._'

"So, can you at least tell me what you think is wrong?" I asked, hating the pleading note I could hear in my voice but accepting it all the same – I knew why it was there. I'd always hated being kept in the dark about things. That's _part_ of the reason why Bruce and I had clashed so much of late – he knew everything and enjoyed demonstrating that to all and sundry, myself included, or he acted like he knew everything and strung me along until I gave it to him anyway. I say only part, because there was far more to our strained relationship than simply that, of course.

She shook her head even as she packed up her things to leave. "Like I said, I'm starting to think that you had more trauma than they picked up while you were in the Rabe Memorial." She paused a moment and took a deep breath, then flashed a reassuring look that did nothing for either of us. "Then again, it may be nothing and I'm worrying both of us unduly." Leslie gave me another reassuring smile on her way out the door. "Tell you what, I think I'll go and set up those tests now, while I've got the details in my head. I'll be back in a few minutes to let you know when they'll be done."

The door clicked shut behind her, leaving me alone in my room with only my thoughts for company. There was really nothing else to do, really, besides look at the ceiling and _think_. Not exactly a new situation for me. Given the recent conversation, it was unavoidable, I suppose, that my thoughts would naturally turn to the one thing that worried me the most: my injured leg.

Truth be told, I'd come to the same conclusion that Leslie just had about three or four days ago, during the one and only time in the last nine or so days that everyone had left me alone long enough that I could try my luck at standing up and putting weight on my leg. And before you say it, _I know_. It hadn't exactly been my brightest idea to do it unsupervised, but I'd also known that it was just about the only way I'd ever be able to do it. And anyway, it wasn't like I'd gotten very far. The amount of pain involved just in doing the relatively simple task of raising my knee off the bed had been...maddening. That was one adjective for it; that is, it was the one I'd use to describe the experience in polite company. Which was also what I _wasn't_ at the time. The river of fire shooting up my leg had caught me so much by surprise that I was pretty sure I would've been found out if there had been anyone nearby, given how vocal and fluent I was in expressing my displeasure.

On the other hand, I did find out that I now knew how to curse in more languages than I did the last time I'd checked. I was up to eight now.

With that experience in mind, it probably shouldn't have surprised me that the effects of whatever had happened in that PT-session-that-I-couldn't-remember had apparently been enough to make Alfred give me enough pain medication to bomb me out for over 24 hours. And of course, with my luck, I had to do whatever-it-was in front of _Bruce_. Definitely not my best move. He was gonna be worse then ever, now.

Although, come to think of it, that was probably why I hadn't seen him since. Usually Bruce tried to pop into the Manor during his lunchbreak to check up on me. But even if he'd had a late lunchbreak, it would've been over at least half an hour ago, going by the clock on the wall. And, given what Leslie told me about the timeframe, I was pretty sure that was when I was awake for that period of time.

At least, I _think_ I was awake at the time...

But anyway, like I said, it didn't surprise me that Bruce hadn't been round since...or, at least, hadn't been around me while I was awake and aware. See, Bruce doesn't deal well with pain. Specifically, he doesn't deal well with pain in _others_ that he's close to, least of all when it was me or Alfred. He dealt with it by ignoring it completely...or by going off the deep-end on either Gotham's criminal element or whoever was injured at the time. It was hard to tell in advance which one he'd do – that depended on what way the wind blew, for all I'd know – but you _did_ know that he'd react. The best you could do most times was hunker down and do your best to wait to out. And I wasn't usually lucky enough to have time to do that.

Take the last time he'd had up-close-and-personal experience with me being shot, as an example. It was in my shoulder, courtesy of the Joker, and he took it out on _me_. Me, literally the injured party. That was why said experience ended up with him firing me from being Robin. Oh, even now he'd no doubt say that I had been the one to quit, that I was the one who left _him_. That the current strains in our relationship were thus mostly _my_ fault.

The truth is...he made me leave.

Back then, Robin was _my life_. I could have no more willingly given that up than I could have put the bullet in my own shoulder. _'Which is about as likely as me flying to the moon under my own power._' Might be me, but I tended to have this aversion to being shot. Besides, I was in this business to save lives, and to make a _difference_, not for the pain. And I didn't just mean physical pain, either. Batman is a master of emotional blackmail. So was Bruce, when he put his mind to it. And both of them had made it abundantly clear that I wasn't welcome in the Robin suit anymore.

If I'd had to quit, it was because they'd already fired me.

And now I'd been shot again. Twice. Once in the chest, once in the leg. I hated to think of what he might do to me this time.

At least last time, my shoulder had healed itself relatively quickly. Back then, I'd only needed two weeks before I'd been able to put the sling away for good and set to work on rebuilding the strength I'd lost. I could've done it earlier, a lot earlier, 'cause Leslie had long since declared me fully ready to go back. The only problem was that I'd had no costume to go back _to_, and thus less of a will to get myself back into shape than I normally had.

Thank goodness for Alfred and Superman, or else I might never have gotten myself back on track again. Those two, and a few other people besides, gave me the direction I'd needed to find a purpose again...to rediscover myself.

This time, though, it was different...worse in some ways, if I was being honest. I was becoming increasingly certain that this injury was more serious. I definitely didn't recall my shoulder being as painful as my leg currently was, even at the very beginning of the recovery process when the shoulder was hurting the worst and Leslie had gotten me doped up pretty good just so I could function. Heck, I'd been doped up better than good, truth be told. I have my reasons for hating painkillers.

On the other hand, at least this time Bruce couldn't fire me.

Not from being Nightwing, anyway. I've put too much of myself into that 'nightsuit' and all it represented, made it too much my own, for me to let _him_ have any say in whether I'd ever wear it again. It was too much a part of me now. I'd fought too hard and come too far from the man I once was to let him drag me back there now.

I'd rather die first than go back to that.

Unfortunately, I wasn't so sure about my job at the BHPD. No matter what Roy said about me being oblivious to people, I was well aware that Bruce wasn't truly comfortable with me being a cop and carrying a gun, let alone with me being a cop in _Blüdhaven_. There, a clean cop was literally the exception proving the rule that the 'Haven's cops couldn't be trusted. And as much as I usually didn't like admitting it, the Wayne name had a lot of influence over a lot of people, even in Blüdhaven. Especially in Blüdhaven. I was pretty sure that the Powers That Be in the BHPD would be more than happy to get rid of a problematic cop like me.

All Bruce had to do was exert the _slightest_ bit of pressure, drop his name and mine a few times and not even in the same sentence, and I'd be fired or transferred out of there fast so fast I wouldn't even have time to blink. Or the corrupt cops there would quite happily harass me so much that they'd make my life even more of a hell there than it already was, and I'd have to do something just to save my own sanity. If it got to that point, though, I knew that the years hadn't changed me enough to change my response to that kind of situation. Sane thing as before: I'd fire myself first and save everyone the trouble. Maybe even permanently. But that was me, that was the gypsy in me. I've always tended to run from problems I couldn't face; the trouble was knowing when to stop.

In part, that was probably why Bruce's recent distance was bothering me so much. I just knew he was cooking up _something_ in that head of his, I just didn't know _what_, and part of me wasn't all that sure I was going to enjoy finding out. And I couldn't get out of this bed to either find out what it was or make my getaway before I found out.

On the other hand, Leslie _did_ say it might be nothing. I remembered that much. There was a chance that I might be worrying and stressing myself out over nothing, that the high levels of pain in my leg were nothing more than the normal response to getting shot there. What was that quote Alfred told me once? It was something about pain... Ah, yes, it was about how the pain we feel at any one point was always the worst we'd ever felt, but the memory of it faded quickly once it was over. Or something like that.

Then again, knowing my luck, it might _not_ be nothing either. It might in fact _be_ something. In which case I really was screwed, wasn't I? But if it _was_ something...then what was it? And, once again, was it something I really wanted to know?

Thankfully, Leslie came back into my room before I could follow that trail of thought too far. She knew me too well to leave me alone and let me think about these kinds of things for too long. The click of the door shutting behind her certainly came as a welcome reprieve from my thoughts, I knew that much. I refocused my attention on the rest of the world just as the elderly doctor was settling herself in the worn armchair near the head of my bed, her manner all-businesslike and her smile tense, though her grayish brown eyes were warm. "Well, everything's organised, but I'm afraid that I've got some good news and some bad news for you, Dick."

Carefully blanking my expression, I raised one eyebrow of my own and abruptly decided that I could do with some cheering up. "Really? Good news first, then."

"I managed to get you in this afternoon so that you'll have all tests finished and be back at the Manor by tea-time."

_'That's the good news? Shesh'_, I thought to myself. It didn't sound all that appealing to me. The way I was already feeling, I'd be so worn out by the coming trip that I doubted I'd be getting much of a late meal before falling asleep for the night (or what counted as the night for me). I nodded anyway, taking a deep breath – or as deep as I could get it with my ribs still healing – to prepare myself for the rest of it. "And the bad?"

"The bad news is that you need to be ready to leave in five minutes." She shrugged apologetically, a sympathetic look in her eyes as if she knew exactly what she was asking me to do. Which she probably did, darn her. "The only other opening was a week away, and that's too long to leave you like this without the proper treatment. If you ask me, we've left this long enough already." She paused a moment and seemed to consider something. "Do you want me to get Alfred in to help you dress?"

My immediate reaction was to suck in a breath for a complete and utter denial. No way in hell was I gonna need help dressing. I hadn't needed help to do that since long before I came to the Manor, no matter what Alfred thought of how carnies are raised.

Then I exhaled that breath and took about the same amount of time to think. Unfortunately for me and my pride, my objections didn't stand up long to the machine in my head. Or a bit of pain from three mending ribs from a too-deep breath. I barely needed to make another move in my endless quest to find a comfortable position to be reminded why these tests were going to be a Good Thing To Do, and also why it was going to be Yet Another Very Painful Experience. I sighed and nodded slowly, admitting reluctantly, "That...probably would be a good idea."

See, I knew I'd have enough trouble getting myself out the room to also have to worry about taking the detour to the closet where my clothes were stored. At the very least, I figured I'd probably need help picking out a more suitable set of pants than these boxers that Barbara gave me a few years ago at some personal milestone – I don't quite remember which one it was now. Acrobatic teddy bears, while admittedly nice (well, "cuddly" was Barb's term for them, but that's not a word that is generally allowed past my lips so "nice" would have to do instead) in private, they did absolutely nothing for a man's sense of pride and dignity if one was seen wearing them in public.

Leslie nodded, but didn't move away. Which meant that there was something else on her mind. It didn't take her long to get it out. Locking her gaze with mine and leaning forward in her chair, she told me quietly, "The other bad news is that this is going to hurt. A lot. I won't lie to you, Dick. You'll probably need something to help you handle the pain you're going to experience."

I gave a mental snort at that one. As if I didn't already have enough drugs coursing through my veins.If I got given much more I'was gonna be so high I'd be floating to the moon. I scowled at the bedspreads, disgusted with myself and the entire situation. There was no way that I was going to give in to that prospect easily just because some Doctor (even if it was Leslie) told me so. "Can I try it without anything first?" I pleaded, fixing Leslie with my best earnest expression. _'Maybe I'll be lucky and the ones I'm already on will be enough..._'

Leslie sighed resignedly, almost as if she'd expected me to make that response. Then again, it wouldn't have surprised me if she had. She knew what I thought about taking drugs and painkillers, and why. Maybe that was why she didn't argue it with me like she usually would with Bruce. "That's fair enough," she agreed, standing and brushing imaginary lint off her skirt. "I'll go and get Alfred for you, and then I'll warn everyone what's going on." She flashed me a warm smile and a wink on her way out the door, and then was gone.

So now I was alone again. For as long as it lasted. Personally, I figured I'd give it no more than thirty seconds before Alfred would be in here to "help" me, which really meant it'd be the Do Everything For The Poor Invalid kind of help. It also meant that I figured I had just about as long to prove to Alfred that just because the words started with the same pair of letters didn't mean that 'injured' equaled 'incompetent'.

Right. First order of business in all that would be to get myself upright, at least sitting if not standing.

All things considered, sitting up was actually fairly easy. Broken ribs might be a bitch to try and get comfortable with, but at least I could support them by wrapping my good arm around my torso whilst I held my breath and levered myself upright.

Okay, okay, so it hurt like the blazes, sweat was pouring off me, and I was feeling rather faint and nauseous by the time I was upright. But hey, I was sitting up, right?

Well, sorta sitting up. Slouched shoulders, hunched over, unable to straighten up, but it was still more vertical than I'd managed in a while. A quick check of the good old internal clock once I'd recovered told me that no more than fifteen seconds had passed. All in all, that meant I was doing pretty good today. So far, at least.

The next task would be getting my legs over the side of the bed. My left leg, the uninjured one, was easy. One simple move, barely even two seconds, and that was done. I admit, I was elated at my progress. And I knew, I just knew, that in a few moments, I'd be standing again for the second time in three weeks.

False sense of security anyone?

In hindsight, it really shouldn't have surprised me so much to discover the level of agonising fire that flashed through my entire body when I moved the right leg. Not even the last time I'd moved the leg without painkillers compared to it. Then, my memories said that the movement had been unconscious, more of a twitch than anything.

But this, this was entirely conscious and deliberate. I felt everything.

And I mean **everything**.

Even just starting to swing the leg over the side of the bed triggered the blood draining away from my face and sent cold sweat trickling down my face and back as I struggled to overcome my natural aversion to high-level agony.

By the time I got the darn thing near the edge of the bed, I was also muttering the vilest curses I knew on one Diablo Simmons and denouncing his heritage the best way I knew how: in Romany. While in general I might not have remembered a lot from my circus days, I did remember the language of my childhood. It tended to come out of my mouth at instinctive moments, moments when I forgot my training and my years with Bruce. And if there was one thing the gypsies did very well, it was invent insults.

Thankfully, I'd managed to ride out the pain and cool myself down to the point where only the occasional muttered invective was slipping past my lips by the time Alfred came into the room. If he was surprised that I was sitting up all by myself – quite literally for the first time in _days_ – and on the edge of the bed, let alone muttering to myself like I was crazy, he showed no major sign of it.

But, no, wait, I did catch the tiniest hesitation in his movements and a small twitch of one eyebrow as he entered the room proper. It was the kind of hesitation-and-twitch reaction that you really had to squint to see, and even then it was so easy to miss. But that was Alfred for you. He never really had to say much for me to know what he was feeling. I knew he was disappointed with me, I just didn't know how bad it was going to be.

After that tiniest of outward reactions, Alfred promptly took over the process of getting me ready just like he always has, simply by virtue of being in the room. His movements were as precise as always, giving no hint of what lay beneath his gentlemanly veneer. It was only when he spoke that he gave it all away. "What would you like to wear today, young man?" he asked me, even as he was briskly pulled various items out of the wardrobe.

_'Uh oh, "young man" time. Not good._' With that tone of voice and that particular term of address, I knew I was definitely in for it now. I usually only got that when I'd just done something terminally stupid, crazy, or fool-hardy. Or all three.

But I also knew that I was too tired and sore from getting to the edge of the bed to care. It figured that the one time I actually wanted the release of being on drugs, would also be the one time that the damn things had pretty much worn off. _'Probably shouldn't have said no to Leslie's offer, eh Grayson?'_

"Shorts or a very baggy pair of jeans," I replied quickly, distrustfully eyeing off the tight-fitting garments he'd already pulled out for me, "or just something easy for me to get on and off without touching the leg." It wasn't that I didn't want to save myself some pain. I did. Like I said before, I might be many things, but I wasn't masochistic. No, what I _did_ want was a little bit of dignity, seeing as I didn't doubt that the hospital techs would want to put me in one of those awful gapping-at-the-back gowns for the tests. More to the point, I didn't want to have to get said technicians to "help" me get dressed. I'd had enough of that kind of assistance by the time I turned fifteen, thank you very much. "Probably a pair of baggy shorts would be best," I finally added, thinking that that would also allow easier access to the wound if necessary.

Alfred nodded briskly, and a pair of baggy cargo shorts promptly appeared on the bed. Elastic waist, gunmetal grey fabric with a navy blue trim on the leg cuffs. Certainly nothing to write home about, as they say. _'Still..._'

_'Gunmetal gray...and blue trim..._' I couldn't help but frown as I gingerly reached over to rub the fingertips of my right hand over the fabric of the shorts. There was something...something about the shorts that was triggering something inside my head, something to do with one of the big hazy spots in my memory I'd been living with ever since I woke up in the hospital. But what was setting it off? Was it the colour combination? The texture of the fabric? Or something else entirely? "Hey, Al," I called out suddenly, "these shorts came as part of a set, didn't they?"

The old man – well, older anyway – poked his head around the closet door from where he seemed to be neck deep in socks. "Those?" he queried, one eyebrow slightly cocked. That was either puzzlement or Alfred about to pull out a memory, I think. "I believe they do indeed come as a set." His head ducked back out of sight for a moment.

And then, just like magic, it seemed like I had the matching t-shirt in my hands before I even had time to blink. Maybe sooner. Same texture, same gray fabric, same navy trim around the collar and sleeves. I looked down at it even as I rubbed my hand over the material. _'Drat. Nothing._' Compared to those shorts, this top was a blank canvas. _'Nope, nothing unusual here'_, I thought to myself in disgust. _'Maybe it's just those shorts for some stupid reason. Yeah, like maybe I'm imagining the whole darn thing._' Growling mentally in frustration at my uncooperative brain, I tossed the shirt towards my right so it could join the shorts sitting there.

It landed face-up...revealing the corner of a logo I didn't immediately recognise. I quickly spread the tee out on the bed in order to see it more clearly. Turned out, it was nothing more than the BPD logo. _'Drat and darnations._' The way my mental radar had been going off at full speed, I'd expected it to be something more major, along the lines of life-shattering major. Turned out it was just the familiar sight of the BPD's civvies that my drug-clogged brain had failed to fully process. _'Great._' I must be so desperate to get out of here that now I was probably seeing things. _'Paranoia, thy name is Grayson._' Which was probably why I talked to myself so much.

Now, if only that uneasy feeling that was making the hairs on my neck rise would just calm down, then I might actually be able to believe that.

Alfred, kind soul that he is, chose precisely that moment to materialise beside the bed from somewhere deep inside that closet of mine – or, rather, from somewhere deep inside the closet that he let me use whenever I was staying in the Manor for a while. He must've seen some trace of my disquiet on my face, because the first thing out of his mouth was a question. "Master Dick? Are you alright?"

_'Yeah, never better'_, the sarcastic part of me shot back. And people wondered why I take a moment before I replied to questions – it wasn't to think of an answer, it was to think of a different one. _'On the other hand, at least we're back to "Master Dick" again._' I sighed and shrugged. "I'm fine. Just thinkin' crazy things, that's all." Giving my head a small shake, I decided that a subject change was in order. I looked up at Alfred and gave him my best reassuring smile. "So, what say we get this show on the road?"

Alfred, though, wasn't all that reassured. There's definitely nothing wrong with his eyesight, whatever his age may be. He said nothing, though, bless his heart.

No, he did something even better that that. He told me that I needed his help to put the shorts on. And I agreed, thinking that what little remained of the drugs from earlier should be enough to get me through this, that I could do it with Alfred there to help me. Still hadn't learnt my lesson from earlier, had I?

At least this time I was already on the edge of the bed.

It wasn't too bad when he had to lift the foot on my bad leg to slip it through the short-leg.. Sure, seeing white flashes before my eyes was an interesting experience, but it was also distracting enough to ensure I kept my grip on reality.

Then he helped me to stand so he could pull the shorts up to my waist.

I was wrong about the drugs being enough to get me through.

_'Gods._'

Even as high as I was, it wasn't enough. Nowhere _near_ enough.

By the time he let me sit down on the bed again, I was pretty sure I wasn't conscious. Not fully. Not like I normally was, even though I was fairly sure my eyes were still open. I certainly wasn't in any state to complain or launch a protest when Alfred left me, let alone be able to keep myself upright without him there to support me. My body crumpled back on the bed and I laid there, staring blearily at the ceiling and vaguely hoping I'd find the energy to move before my neck and back cramped too badly.

Then Alfred popped back into my field of vision, with another face besides his that I didn't immediately recognise. I blinked when the face started speaking, asking me questions. Might as well as have been speaking to the air, for all the sense I made of it. My eyes dragged themselves over to return to Alfred, to the one face I _did_ know. I've seen Alfred look like many things, over the years. But not quite like this. _'I wonder who they're so worried about...?'_

I was still struggling to figure out an answer to that when I felt a sickeningly familiar warmth steal through my body and encroach on my thoughts. That was when I realized who the other face had to belong to. _'Leslie..._' It was also only then that I noticed the feeling of having a needle stuck in my arm. _'Great. Just what I don't need. Another needle, another damn drug in my system._' Warm hands on my arms stilled my instinctive reaction to that.

More words. Someone was speaking. Probably to me. But I couldn't hear it, and I didn't want to hear it. My last, fleeting, coherent thought was that at least I'd soon be too busy being insensate to be angry at having my choice taken away from me.

Then, there was only darkness.

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****_Next up/Teaser:_** Hospitals and Dick do not mix. It'll be a shorter chapter, I promise.


	2. Collateral Damage

_**Chap. Summary:**_ Lying in bed with entirely too much time on one's hands is not an appealing prospect.

_**Rating:**_ It you must rate it, this chapter probably drifts towards pg13/Teen/equivalent, though it's only because Dick's now too tired and sick to keep control of his thoughts.

_**Warnings:**_ Fairly sensitive subject matter. Do not read the opening few pages if you're already depressed; I don't want to be held responsible.

_**Time:**_ It starts roughly eighteen hours after the last chapter, that is, in the morning of the next day.

_**Notes:**_  
Unlike High Noon, this story is not going to be shorter chapters of a minute-by-minute recount of what happens. I can't write that many chapters. Instead, I'm going for a series of inter-connected vignettes to tell the greater overall story. Confused yet? Don't worry; so am I. It'll make sense as the story unfolds. I hope.  
And yes, this _is_ a shorter installment than the first one. Blame _two _six-day migraines, plus the start of university, where I'm a full-time engineering student. And my mum going to hospital. Three times in a month, then diagnosed with a disease that can kill her within the year. I'm not up to writing anything longer or more in-depth. Nor, can I promise when the next one will be. It hasn't been written yet, while these first two chapters were. And I need some time to refocus.

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**CALL OF DUTY**  
**Obstacle Course**

**_2. Collateral Damage_**

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**Man, the air-conditioning in this place was cool. Cold, really. And the linen cupboard that I knew held the other blanket for the bed was on the other side of the room. Which was real smart. Whose bright idea was that, anyway? What was the point in putting a cupboard all the way over _there_ instead of being nice and close and convenient for the poor shivering patient on the bed who wasn't allowed to walk?

And while we were on questions like that, who designed this room anyway? I'd bet that they'd never heard of originality. I could have sworn that it was the same room I'd woken up from the coma in, all those weeks ago, if I hadn't known that I was not only in a completely different hospital, but in another city entirely. Wouldn't have known it for looking around, though. There was the same nauseating taupe-beige paint on the walls – nauseating since it reminded me of all the times I'd seen someone's insides on their outsides. The bed also had the same lumps in the same places, and even the blankets were worn in identical patterns. (Trust me, I checked.) Even the furniture all looked the same. In short, my surroundings looked like they were was all stamped out of the same monotonous mold, just like each and every one of the innumerable hospital rooms I'd had the dubious pleasure of staying in over the years.

Which was a number entirely too high to count.

And what was the deal with that, anyway? There had to be some reason why I kept ending up in hospital, and I knew it wasn't me and my skills. Was it something I'd done? Had I massively ticked Somebody off without knowing it, so that they kept sending these things my way? Was there some kind of invisible sign on me somewhere advertising that I was simply some poor sap just waiting to get into trouble, so I could end up in another room just like this one? What _was_ it about me that kept landing me in rooms just like this – and, if there was something, how the hell did I fix it?

Well, that last one was easy to answer, at least. I might not have known how to fix this (short of discovering time travel in my current abundance of spare time), but I _did_ know why it happened. Or rather, I knew how it happened, which I supposed was pretty much the same thing at this point. It happened because I'd been the only one in the area who was also willing to do anything, that day in Blüdhaven when one Diablo Simmons decided to spice up his life by firing into the sidewalk's lunchtime crowds. Hadn't exactly been his brightest idea, seeing as he didn't have much of a life anymore, now that he was in custody and awaiting his trial.

More to the point, it wasn't his brightest idea to do it in _my_ city, during _my_ lunchbreak on what had already been a very long and frustrating day. I was sure that there was a moral about that, somewhere in all this. Probably something along the lines of not getting between a tired and frustrated cop and his lunch without being willing to pay the consequences.

_'Hmph.' _He was just lucky that he wasn't stopping me from having a cup of coffee. Then he _really_ would've been in trouble.

You know, speaking of food, I never did get my lunch that day. Heck, I haven't even been back to that little Korean deli in the days since, although that's hardly been my fault. No, the blame for _that_ lies squarely with Diablo, not with me. I certainly wasn't the one who shot me twice with another cop's gun; I may be a world class acrobat, but not even _I_ could contort myself like that, nor would I want to. Besides, if I were really going to shoot myself, I wouldn't shoot myself in the leg and in the chest. No, if I was _that_ determined to put pellets of lead in my body, I'd go for a more permanent method and location.

No sense in doing things halfway, and all that.

Although, to be fair, if I were that determined to off myself, I wouldn't be using a gun. It's too messy, for one thing, and the bullets usually do too much unnecessary damage that gets in the way of killing yourself – my current situation being a case in point. Besides, I didn't think I could stand the taste of the metal long enough to actually pull the trigger. I was fussy that way.

Then there was my whole reluctance to pulling the trigger to begin with to consider, thanks to Bruce.

And while I'd seen enough to know that men prefer to use hanging and shooting themselves as their preferred methods of suicide, well, that simply wasn't me. Guns were definitely out. And while hanging might once have had its appeal...well, certain boyhood memories had a way of rearing up when I least expected them. So, no, no thank-you. Not for this little black vigilante.

No, if I was really that determined to end it all, I was pretty sure that I'd use pills...or a drug of some kind. They were easy enough to obtain, even through the more legal channels. One of the few advantages of having money is that you could pick and choose your doctors, and whoever you picked has to take your word for what medications you were on and why. Which was also one of the few times that being a cop actually comes in handy – doctors are more likely to take your word for it when you tell them you needed the meds for the aftermath of a hard case after you flash your badge.

But when I did it – _if_ I was going to do it – I wouldn't do it in public. If I was going to check out that way, I'd want to do it in private. But I still wouldn't use my apartment. For one thing, it wouldn't be fair on the next landlord. It was so hard to rent out or sell an apartment where someone committed suicide.

And that brought my throughts round to my own landlord mess. When I got out of here, I really needed to find someone willing to take over ownership of my apartment building in case something like that happened to me. Not that I really planned to die that way in the future, but, well, it always helped to have contingency plans in place and all that – especially if someone decided to that kind of thing to me for me, like Diablo tried to. I had to put it in my will or something – that is, if I had one. Off the top of my head, I couldn't recall actually sitting down and making one, but then I'd make it a pretty fair bet that there was one floating around somewhere. I knew myself well enough to know that.

Be prepared for everything, and all that.

I just hoped I'd kept it up to date.

Personally, I'd probably hand most of my holdings over to Bruce, or maybe even Lucius, if I was that desperate to off myself – with the exception of a few personal items for the Titans, Bruce, Tim, and for Barbara. No matter how depressed I'd ever gotten, and I'd certainly had my moments, I could never see myself as that bad, leaving Clancy and Aaron and everybody else who depended on me in the lurch like that.

At least that way I wouldn't be there to see the fallout when everyone found out that I'd been the mysterious owner of the building virtually from the start. That had got to be a benefit of kicking off. Although...on the other hand, there was also the drawback that I wouldn't see Clancy's face when they told her. Oh, to be a proverbial fly on the wall at that moment... which would be possible, I supposed, if I believed in reincarnation. Which I don't, by the way. Unless I get to believe that the Joker comes back as a cockroach.

But that's digressing, isn't it?

Where was I again?

Ah, yes, the methodology of doing myself in.

So, like I was saying, pills would win hands down. Mainly because they were tidy and easy, and if I _was_ that desperate to die, I wouldn't want it to be as hard as living. And you didn't really have to psyche yourself up to it either. Just swallow them, wash them down with some alcohol, go to sleep, and off you go. Out of all the ways to kill yourself, or try to, using pills was definitely the shortest, sweetest and most painless method. (Cyanide, for the record, is not as quick or as painless as the movies make it look.) Trust me on that. I'd seen almost all the ways to do the deed. And I'd done a few of them myself too. Technically. Bad undercover jobs, for the most part. Long stories, all of them.

And no, before you ask, my throwing myself off buildings every night didn't count in that tally of the things I'd seen and done. Never had, despite what people might tell you, and never would. That was _fun_, not suicide.

Although, to be fair, there might be a few suicide methods out there that I hadn't seen yet...but I doubted it. After all, there were only so many ways to do yourself enough damage that your body would voluntarily choose dying over living. Because, let's face it, it would have to take something pretty major to convince the body to give up its addiction to living.

Unfortunately, even before I became a cop, I'd seen plenty of ways to make the body do just that. After I became a cop, of course, I saw even more. We got called out, usually, with the homicide detectives so that we could guard the crime scene, keep the chain of evidence clear, et cetera. Like they say, it was a dirty job but someone had to do it. And lately, it had been me and my partner, Sergeant Rohrbach, or me and Officer Gannon if she was busy.

It was great.

It meant I could usually gather a little evidence of my own on the more unusual cases. There were usually plenty of those. This _was_ Blüdhaven, after all. The unusual was practically a weekly occurrence.

At least, it _had been_ great, before I got injured. I didn't know who was doing that sort of work now. Probably Kelly Chavez and his partner, Domingo Alvarez, if I had to guess. They were right above Amy and I on the "dirty job" roster, followed by pretty much every other member of the small number of clean cops in the BPD. Then came the rookies, and then whoever had managed to annoy our lovely "Inspector" Arnot that week.

Welcome to the reality of the BPD's pecking order.

_'Damn.'_ Wish I knew who it was. Sure, they might have been clean as a whistle, but some officers on that list couldn't gather evidence if it was presented to them on a silver platter. Heck, I was pretty sure that they wouldn't recognise decent evidence if it hit them in the face. They were good cops and all, but...well, I wouldn't want them at my crime scene if I was a detective. Three city blocks away should be far enough away for comfort. Maybe more on a bad day.

Actually, at the moment, I'd settle for finding out what a _fly_ was doing in Blüdhaven. I didn't really know who was doing squat there anymore, except for what I could wring out of Tim and Cass when they stopped by. Even if they never seemed to call in enough, nor know what I really wanted to know about -- they didn't exactly have an insider line to the BPD's inner sanctum, or Blockbuster's for that matter. And they didn't know who to go to in order to get that. I did. On all counts.

And for the record, it wasn't _my_ idea that those two take care of the Haven for me. It just seemed to happen that way, courtesy of Batman. If it'd been up to me, well, I don't know who I'd have picked; hell, for all I know, I might've even suggested that it be Robin and Batgirl to take over looking out for that hellhole I call home.

Yeah, well, then again, I probably wouldn't have picked those two anyway. While I didn't doubt their skills and abilities, the 'Haven could be a brutal place even for _me_ at times, and I was pretty much used to the place and what it threw at me. And those two were still young enough that they deserved to have some kind of childhood. Besides, the things I wanted kept tabs on, well, they were not places 'kids' deserved to be, whether they wore a mask or not. So of course I was pressing them, if only to make sure they stayed _away_ from those places.

Come to think of it, that was probably why they didn't visit too much anymore. Donna did warn me about that, that I was probably pressing them too hard for information.

But what else could they expect? I'd already been stuck in bed for far too long, and, if Leslie was to be believed, it looked like it was only going to get worse. There just wasn't much you could do when your butt was forced to spend weeks parked firmly on a bed and you didn't want to move too much. I swear, I'd already counted the hospital's ceiling tiles so often that I was seeing them in my _dreams_. Plus I'd read all the books that Alfred would allow me access to. Twice over, and that was only counting the last few days. Week before that, I'd gone through them even more frequently.

Which simply showed how desperate I was getting for something to occupy my time, especially since been trained to remember all the details after reading something through _once_. It comes under 'Cruel And Unusual Punishment', for a man to be forced to read a book when he already knows exactly how it's going to end.

Actually, at this point, I didn't need to turn a page to know what the words were be. I already had them all written out in my head. Word for word. Page for page. From the first letter right down to the very last period at the end of the final sentence.

Damn. I was digressing again. Or was that ranting?

Whatever.

Anyway.

Getting back to who should be taking care of Blüdhaven, did I mention that it was Batman who decided it? That was right, _Batman_, not Bruce. He'd 'informed' me of his decision two hours ago, during one of the lulls between all the tests, just before I got sentenced to this room. And even then, he'd made it pretty clear that I'd only found out because Alfred had been badgering him for _days_ to tell me at all. But, as annoying as that was, that wasn't what really got to me – and still was getting to me – about the whole thing.

No, what was ticking me off was something far simpler. I simply wished that a certain someone – heck, anyone – had actually _asked_ me what I thought. Even if it wouldn't have affected what the final decision was going to be – and I knew damn well, better than most, that it wouldn't have mattered anyway. Especially with Batman around. I knew full well my having any say in the proceedings would've only been a delusion. But at least it still would have made another bitter pill in my life that little bit easier to swallow.

Because it was still _my city_, dammit, whether I was stuck in this damn hospital bed or not. The person looking after it in my absence should have been my choice. And that was the crux of it. I didn't _get_ to choose. Period.

Still, now that Tim and Cassie were there, they'd _better_ have been taking very good care of the 'Haven. I didn't want to find out that I had to clean that place up from the beginning once I finally got back on my feet and got out there again, whether it was as a cop or as Nightwing.

Whenever that would be.

If there'd be anything left for me to go back to.

That, I think, was always one of the hardest parts about being injured: having to let other people take over the cases I'd been working on, and then watching from the sidelines as the cases broke and credit was taken. It just _stung_ something awful, to have put so much time and effort into solving those cases, and then have someone else tidy them all up and get the final credit.

But what hurt even more was to have to admit that I couldn't do it. Not physically anyway. Mentally, well, that was another matter entirely. At least, it would be, if Leslie wouldn't keep pumping enough drugs into my system to turn even _my_ brain to mush. Which probably wasn't saying all that much right now.

Ah, right on cue. Think of the devil and here she was.

I nodded my head in greeting to Leslie as she came into my room, but didn't say anything. Didn't trust myself to, honestly. I might be in too foul a mood for niceties, but I was still on the ball enough to know that there was no way I wanted to alienate my only ally in this place. Sometimes, discretion really was the better part of valour.

Leslie, for her part, obviously had no idea what she was walking into. If she had, there was absolutely no way she would've smiled at me and asked so cheerily, "How are we doing today, Dick?"

It might have been me and this dark, foul mood I seemed to be in, but that cheerfulness grated on me even more than the generic 'we' did. She had no right to be so damn...upbeat. It certainly grated on me enough to make me lose the hold on the tongue that I'd been so determined to keep just a few seconds ago. "_We_ both know how I'm doing, Doc," I retorted testily, then managed to re-clench my jaw again to prevent anything else from coming out. _'G-d, I hate my mouth sometimes.'_

To her credit, Leslie's reaction to my shortness and tone of voice was simply an Alfred-level pointed look and one raised eyebrow. Kind of made me wonder whether Alfred taught her that trick, or whether it was the other way around. With those two, you could never tell. '_Ah, whatever.'_ All I knew was that it still worked a treat on me.

I sighed, slumped back in the hospital bed, and stared at the generic yellow cotton blanket I'd long ago pulled up to the neck to protect me from the cold air-conditioning. Anything to avoid that look. "Sorry, Doc," I murmured, managing to force down the irritation and inject at least a little sincerity into my voice. At least it wasn't _too_ forced an apology. Well, I _was_ apologetic for taking my feelings out on her, but that was about it.

Leslie's expression immediately softened, her aged eyes crinkling at me kindly. "That's okay, son. How's _your_ day been then?"

'Boring,' was the obvious answer. As were a few more colourful adjectives. Instead I opted for silence and a one-armed shrug. It was so much safer and easier. When I get into moods like this, the less I opened my mouth, the less I offended people, and the less trouble I tended to find myself in as a result. Which meant that even one-word answers were out. _Especially_ given my present mood, since my reply was likely to be a swear word for which Alfred would've had me eating soap for days for even thinking.

Leslie nodded anyway with a satisfied air, as if I'd just delivered some kind of supremely eloquent speech on how I'd spent my latest batch of hours of endless boredom. Well, here was a news flash for you. There weren't nothing in this room to do but count ceiling tiles and watch re-runs of shows that were _old_ when Bruce and Alfred first took me in. So, no, I didn't need a thousand words to describe my day. Hell, I didn't even need five.

I was bored. Period.

I was also rather ticked off, but we'd already covered that.

"I've gotten back the results on your latest round of tests," Leslie told me, breaking into my wandering thoughts as she came into the room and settled the edge of the bed, my chart clasped tightly in one hand. At least the chart looked official now. Back at the Manor, it had been a hastily-clipped-together sheath of papers.

I nodded mutely and pasted an inquisitive look on my face, or as close to it as I could get. Actually, it was probably more frustration than anything, seeing as I couldn't read the writing on the chart despite the fact that it was facing me. And since it was upside-down too, well...reading that way was always even faster than reading the right way right way up for me. Much to Batman's chagrin, who'd really had to train himself in this area. Still, not even that kind of ability could stand up to the handwriting of whoever had last scrawled on my chart. At least not without a PhD in cryptography.

Leslie sighed softly, her eyes once more warming as they rested on me. "What do you want first? The good or the bad?"

_'You mean I actually have a __choice_ Pretending to consider the options for a moment, I settled for another one-armed shrug. Truth be told, I didn't care either way. News was news, and that was all there was to it. What difference did the order make? Either way, I was still going to find out what was going on. Finally.

"Right," Leslie sighed, blowing out a hard breath, probably in frustration at me and my attitude. I didn't blame her one bit. "I'll give you both at once then. The good news is that I'm pretty certain that I now know why your leg's been giving you so much grief. The bad news is that, if I'm right, we still need to do a bone biopsy and an MRI, and then you'll have to spend the next few weeks on an IV and lying quietly on a bed."

I stared at her, thoughts swirling in my head as I struggled to understand exactly what she was telling me – or not telling me. While I was definitely no doctor, since living with Bruce I had seen them often enough to know what certain things meant. "Let me guess," I muttered unhappily, clenching my good hand into a fist under the blanket, "all that equates to more hospital time."

Leslie nodded and seemed to brace herself. "I wanted you in a hospital so that we can keep monitoring you to make sure we're avoiding some of the more unpleasant complications. Two to three weeks of intravenous medication is the usual standard, and then you can take the rest of the antibiotics orally for the same amount of time. We'll probably be splinting or casting your leg for a few weeks while you're on the IV. We need to immobilise it and reduce the trauma and stress on your bone and muscles, and to give the limb a chance to recover from the infection."

I scowled at the blankets at that. Aside from the obvious prospects of extra hospital time – which I'd sorta expected anyway – and immobilisation for the leg – joy oh joy – I was still hearing other things, unexpected things, which I liked even less. "Wait just a minute. Did you say antibiotics? You mean to say that I somehow have a _bacterial_ problem with my leg?" It had to be bacterial, because antibiotics didn't work on viruses. Nothing worked on a viral infection. Been there, done that, paid my pints of blood in full, and had absolutely no desire to go back there, thank-you very much.

She nodded at me, relaxing only slightly. "That's what everything's pointing towards – a bacterial infection. We'll need the MRI to determine its extent and the biopsy to figure out exactly which pathogen is involved so we'll know what antibiotic you need, but that's the most likely diagnosis at this point." She paused for a moment to take a deep breath. "The MRI results will also tell us more conclusively if I need to schedule you for surgery."

_'What, now I'm up for surgery too?'_ I leaned back onto the pillows supporting me, wondering for a moment just how everything had gone to hell so quickly. It was only a few days ago that the physical therapist had finally declared me fit enough to start incorporating the leg's exercises into the daily therapy sessions. Of course, my one and only such therapy session ended rather disastrously, but that was hardly my fault. At least I now recalled enough of it that I know that I did try to warn Bruce before it all went south. Damn Bat didn't listen to me though. As usual.

And now I was facing weeks of hospital time, casts, and surgery. Joy. "So why wasn't it picked up earlier?" I prodded, doing my best not to let my lingering irritation show. I wasn't sure how successful I was.

"It's not that surprising, really," she shrugged. "The original infection was probably in the soft tissues beside the bone, and it likely took a while to reach the bone's center by travelling along the path where the bullet nicked you. More to the point, this kind of infection doesn't show up on X-rays for at least 10 days after ir sets in. By the time it would've been detectable by standard radiology tests, you were already long since out of the hospital and back at the Manor."

Only to end up back in the hospital shortly thereafter. In that light, maybe wondering how it had all gone to hell in a hand-basket so quickly wasn't such a bad question to be asking. "Where'd the infection in the tissue come from then?"

"Hard to say, at this point. With the timeline we're looking at, I don't think it was the bullet. Not even _your_ immune system can fight off this kind of infection for so long without some symptoms appearing earlier, or without it being detected in the tests and surgery they did after you woke up."

Yeah, okay, that made sense. I could still remember how...thorough...the tests were that she spoke of, even as drugged up as I'd been at the time. They'd been so thorough that drugs hadn't been enough. "What other options are there?"

Leslie sighed and shrugged her shoulders. Her expression became troubled. "I...I don't know, honestly. The timeline points to the hospital as the site of the original infection, but Rabe Memorial isn't on the alert list as a hospital that is a carrier for the kind of bacteria we're looking at."

"So, the timeline's definite but the hospital's wrong?" I prompted, trying to clarify the situation, to make sure I'd been hearing everything correctly, that I hadn't missed anything. The machine in my head was already working on overdrive on this – it had been as bored as the rest of me. Finally, I had a problem to work on besides how many times I could count the ceiling tiles in an hour. Or how many times I could charm the female nurses in that hour, seeing as we all knew it wasn't going to go anywhere. Not with Barbara around to keep me honest.

Leslie nodded, her troubled look deepening into frustration. "Yep. It's not on the lists, be it officially or unofficially. Not yet, anyway."

Which said a lot, especially if it wasn't even on the _unofficial_ list. If anyone were going to know, the unofficial doctor grapevine should have been one of the first. Actually, come to think of it, I was pretty sure I would've also been among the first to know too, given the number and nature of the connections I'd cultivated in Blüdhaven recently. At least, I had been cultivating them up until I got injured.

And anyway, Rabe Memorial isn't the kind of hospital that would have those kinds of problems in the first place. The usual Blüdhaven mire and corruption aside, the Rabe Memorial hospital wasn't all that bad. From the patient's standpoint, it's obvious that the doctors and nurses care a lot about their patients, despite some lingering rottenness in the higher-ups. And everyone knows that its the doctors and nurses who carry the weight of the hospital, no matter what the admin think.

"I suppose," Leslie continued, "it's possible that there've been some undocumented cases and you're only the first I've encountered, but I highly doubt it. And besides, I was there every time someone went anywhere near your wounds."

The words struck an immediate chord of memory deep within me, but not the way that I'd expected. While my memory might not have been the best since I woke up from the coma, and there was an awful lot I didn't remember about those hellish two weeks I spent in hospital after waking up, I just _knew_ that there was something about that time, or something about the phrasing Leslie had just used, that bothered me...but _what?_ I frowned then, not sure what my instincts were telling me. Was it something I'd done? Something I'd seen without realizing what it meant at the time? Or was it something else entirely? What _was_ that pointy thing poking at me from the back of my mind?

Well, whatever it was, one thing was for sure: it wasn't coming into proper focus like my hunches usually did. No matter how hard I thought about it, the answer eluded me. I just knew that something didn't sit right about this. It was almost as if I was missing some vital pieces of the puzzle that would let everything fall into place, however crookedly.

Blowing out a hard breath, I forced my brain to set the matter aside. For the moment. Given some time to think, my subconscious would probably come up with something more definite. And if it didn't, well, there was a first time for everything, right?

"So," I began, "this is changing the subject a little, but what's the current official verdict?"

Cocking her head to the side slightly, Leslie suddenly grinned at me, eyes dancing in a burst of amusement. At what, I had no idea. I just hoped it wasn't about me. "Do you want the medicalese version or the layman's one?" she asked.

"Does it matter?" I shrugged carelessly, using both shoulders this time and noting absently the lack of pain in my left shoulder. '_Hmph.'_ The bullet graze there must've finally healed. _'About time something went my way.'_

"No, I guess not," the gentle doctor replied, pursuing her lips for a moment. "I can't say for certain without the tests, of course, but I'm ninety-nine percent positive that you've got what we call _osteomyelitis_, an inflammation and infection in the bone's central tissue. It seems to be in the acute form at the moment, so this is one of the better forms of bone infection to have, actually. It'll be harder on you in the short-term, but you'll have a better chance of leading your usual more..._active_ life once we can remove the infection," she told me, coaching her words delicately. Me, I didn't know why she bothered. It wasn't like there was anyone else in the room besides the two of us.

"The treatment," Leslie continued, "involves rehydrating you with fluids and electrolytes, and then getting you started on an antibiotic regime once we've confirmed the identity of the pathogen and the extent of the infection from the test results. We'll know from that if surgery is required." She paused a moment then, and I swear, I caught a glimpse of a shadow or something flicker through her expression. Almost too fast for me, but not enough for me to dismiss so easily. Once again, I was pretty sure that there was something here she wasn't telling me.

She flicked through a few pages on my chart, found something, then sighed and met my eyes again. "On the other hand, we don't know when you contracted the infection, so we have no real guarantee that we've caught it in time to prevent the more serious side-effects. I won't lie to you, Dick," she promised gently, her voice and face radiating conviction and compassion. "All going well, we've hopefully caught it early enough that the infection won't have spread too far. But if we haven't, we might be facing a secondary infection, most likely in your knee. A more immediate concern is that if you don't respond to the antibiotics within thirty-six hours. That would mean that the infection is more major than we think and surgery will be necessary to remove what we can of the infection." She sighed and rubbed her temples as if she had a headache coming. "I'm praying it won't come to that, though."

I simply nodded at all this and said nothing. What could I say? It was a lot to take in. I'd never had this osteomyelithingy before. I didn't know what to expect. All I had to go on was what our family doctor was saying, which I already knew wasn't the whole story. Her body language told me that. She was still hiding something, something I'd no doubt need to know at some point...but I didn't pursue it. Couldn't. Wouldn't. I didn't need yet another mess added to my pile while I was still struggling to assimilate what she'd told me.

Leslie smiled at me then, no doubt guessing at what I was feeling, but the smile didn't reach her eyes. "Now, before I tell you anything else, we need to do the biopsy and send you for that MRI. Do you want someone with you during the procedures?"

I shrugged once more, feeling vaguely numb about it all. Too much to take in all at once, I supposed. "Who's out there?"

"Bruce, Alfred, Tim, Donna, and Roy," she told me, ticking the names off her fingers.

All I could think was that there was one person on that list who wouldn't be shaken by my reactions if it hurt too much while also having hands that I could squeeze without always having to hold back. "Donna, then." Besides, I didn't want Bruce anywhere near me right now. Nor did I want to give Roy any extra ammunition if I could help it. And I didn't know how I felt about Alfred right now, and didn't really want to know until I had more time to sort things out with Bruce. But if it was going to be as bad as Leslie's body language seemed to be indicating, then I didn't want Tim anywhere near this. Which left Donna anyway.

"Right. I'll get everything set up and come back in a few minutes with Donna to start the ball rolling." Giving my good leg a few compassionate pats through the blankets, she took her leave.

Breathing out hard and welcoming the expected complaint from the healing broken ribs, I slumped back on the hospital bed and did my best not to think too much while I waited for Donna.

I'll be the first to admit that I wasn't all that successful in the not-thinking bit. I kept coming back to the same two questions. First, how would this infection thing affect my chances of going back to my two jobs of cop and vigilante? A major can of worms in and of itself that I didn't want to open, even if only my thoughts, Even so, it was still a nicer item of contemplation than my second thought: _'Why?'_

Or, more specifically, why _me_? And why _now?_

--------------------------------------------------

_**Outside...**_

Long years of regulation and self-discipline were all that allowed Dr. Leslie Thompkins to hold herself back until she got out of the room and away from her patient. It was only when she was outside and the door safely shut behind her that she allowed herself to stop, lean back against the door, and let loose the curses that she'd wanted to let loose earlier. Holding a conversation with Dick these days was like trying to walk on eggshells; she never knew when she'd put a foot wrong until she did, and he reacted. Most notably when she'd first entered the room. Whatever he'd been thinking about before she came, it surely had him riled.

Enough so that it seemed to go beyond the irritation that was a usual symptom of osteomyelitis. Because she'd seen Dick irritated before. Heck, she'd seen him in most emotional states over the years. It came part-and-parcel with the job. But this...this seemed to reach levels beyond mere irritation.

If she didn't know better, she'd say Dick was actually _angry_.

Now that was a fearsome thought.

In all of the close to fifteen years she'd been around Dick, she'd seen his anger exactly once. And that once had been more than enough. His true anger was the slow burning kind, the kind that could burn for years and years before the explosion that gave vent to it. Drawn out, yes, but no less passionate for it. If anything, she'd venture to say that it was worse. When Dick got angry with someone, you knew that when (and that was _'when'_, not an 'if') he chose to act on it, well, it wasn't pretty. It reminded her of magma, truth be told. Slow moving it might seem to some, yeah, but it came with a burn all of its own...and woe betide those who were stuck in its path.

But that wasn't the only thing that worried her. There were other things that she'd picked up during the conversation that had set off her mental alarm bells. The way he was huddled under the blanket even though she'd specifically asked the hospital staff to keep the a/c in his room a little lower than normal. There was the way he seemed to blank out on her for just a moment before he'd give her an answer, as if his thoughts had wandered...or worse. And she hadn't missed that he'd been having some memory problems since waking up from his coma, even though the tests she'd insisted on since had seemed to clear him of any brain damage.

Then there was there was something that was...almost _off_, if that was the word for it,...about the way he was acting. That wasn't normal for him. It wasn't anything she could definitively put her finger on and point it out to others, but she could sense it. She knew him too well not to.

But how much of his condition was due to lingering problems from the coma, and how much to the osteomyelitis? Or was it simply due to an active mind forced to spend too much time doing nothing and was thus quietly going nuts?

Or was there something else she was overlooking that might explain why he was healing so slowly? Not even osteomyelitis, at this early stage, could've slowed his healing down as much as it seemed to have. She just _had_ to be missing something, she could feel it. But _what_?

She pinched the bridge of her nose in attempt to stave off the headache she could feel threatening behind her eyeballs. _'I swear, one of these days, trying to treat this family and their injuries is going to break me...'_

It was already bad enough that they refused to listen to Alfred's and her own repeated appeals to stop doing this vigilante business night after night. Bad enough that they didn't seem to have one single speck of self-preservation in their bodies, seeing as how often they came to her for treatment. Bad enough that they couldn't simply _stop_, slow down, and take some time off for themselves, not even for. One. Single. Night.

So why couldn't they have an injuries that were either easy to treat or non-life-threatening? You know, just something _simple_ to treat and not threatening either their lives or her skill? Something that would make up for everything else she had to put up with? Oh, that's right, she'd forgotten: this was Batman and his adoptive family that she was treating; of course nothing was going to be simple. It was just as much a given that nothing was ever going be easy as it was that they'd be out there on the rooftops the moment they were out of her reach.

_'Although, if I wanted things to be simple and easy, I never would've become a doctor...'_

And then who would've treated them?

Who else would've been willing to put up with all of this?

Sighing to herself one final time, she strode off down the hall to see about arranging the tests Dick needed and talking to Donna and everyone else...and then finding herself a couple of aspirin tablets. _'I just __know__ that today's going to be one of those days...'_

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**_**Next up/Teaser:**_Tests and discoveries and explanations while they prepare for treatment.


	3. Of Cabbages And Kings

_**Chap. Summary:**_ Talking heads, with a twist. Leslie _really_ should've gone for that aspirin instead.  
_**Additional Disclaimer:**_ Through The Looking Glass is not mine. I just liked the quote and thought it apt.  
_**Time:**_ It starts a few minutes after the last chap.  
_**Notes:**_ For some reason I _really_ don't like this chapter. I apologise in advance if this chapter has a lot of medical terms that make it hard for some of you to read. I've tried to explain them all. I thought and thought over this for weeks before I came to the conclusion that this was necessary to explain things that'll happen in upcoming chapters, and why. Its gonna be the only chapter like this, I _promise_. So here you are. I hope it wasn't too bad, I was only _writing_ and the conversation and the characters just...took over... So I put a little extra in at the end to make up for it. :-)

_**PS:**_ I'm _sorry_ this is out here so late. It's really not my fault. It would've been out here over three _months_ ago if gremlins hadn't got to my computer and swallowed my entire chapter, I swear. Okay, _okay_, so I accidentally copied over the finished version with a version that was barely started. Hmph. I still say its gremlins! So. Now that I've had to reconstruct the whole darn thing from scratch, here's hoping it's made a better story of it...  
All credit for this chapter goes to my three wonderful betas, who've collectively dragged this chapter kicking and screaming out of the mud and into the light. I couldn't do this without them.

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**Now off with you! Enjoy!

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**CALL OF DUTY**  
**Obstacle Course**

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**3. Of Cabbages And Kings**

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_"The time has come", the Walrus said,_  
_"To talk of many things:_  
_Of shoes—and ships—and sealing wax—_  
_Of cabbages—and Kings—_  
_And why the Sea is boiling hot—_  
_And whether pigs have wings."_  
Through The Looking Glass

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** "Osteomy-_what?"_ Roy interrupted, brow furrowed in confusion. 

Leslie sighed and reached for patience once again, wondering if she should've made time to have that aspirin for her headache before attempting this conversation. _'Probably.'_ Ah well, too late for that now. "That's 'osteo_myelitis_', Roy." she finally said, with all the strained patience she could muster. "It's basically an infection of the bone's central tissue."

Tim nodded thoughtfully from one of the hospital's couches, where he sat next to Donna. "That makes sense when you consider the Latin components. I'd guess that the name comes from _osteo_ for the skeletal structure, _myleos_ for the bone marrow, and the _itis_ suffix is for the inflammation?"

Leslie nodded, reminding herself yet again not to be surprised at how much these people knew. Medicinal Latin was no doubt just the start of it. "Yes, that's exactly right, Tim. How did you know that?" _'Knowing my luck, it's probably Remedial Knowledge 101.'_

The youth shrugged and tried to ignore his burning ears – as well as the sideways looks from the archer who lounged against the side of the couch next to Donna. "High school biology," he answered quickly. "Our teacher is crazy, I swear, and probably just a little bit high. I don't know where he gets all his energy from. On the other hand, it's also the only class anyone actually enjoys, so it's a fair trade-off, I guess."

Leslie just smiled, nodded again, and made a mental note to look up this biology teacher for herself. Anyone who could teach biology to teens – _and_ get them _interested_ in it – had to be worth investigating. "So, like Tim said," she continued smoothly, once she'd gathered herself, "that is why we call a bone infection by the term 'osteomyelitis' medically. Now, being an infection, there are the usual symptoms to look out for. However, due to the location, we have other factors to worry about—"

Standing in the middle of the room, Bruce squared his shoulders determinedly. "So, what symptoms should we look out for?" he interrupted, tired of her prattle and wanting to get to the heart of the matter. This was his _son_ they were talking about, he didn't want the long-winded explanation. And besides, he'd come here straight from a _very_ long patrol that had covered lots of ground tonight, and he had the bruises to prove it. He hadn't been to bed yet, and he doubted he would get the opportunity – the accursed early-morning meetings at WayneTech had somehow snuck yet again onto his schedule. He really needed a new secretary.

Leslie, on the other hand, had just as little time for him and his interruptions. She'd spent a long night bent over his son and his test results, after an even longer day filled with other cases and tests. She'd also had to deal with Dick. Seeing as today wasn't looking any better, she had a right to be a little testy. "It's not a matter of what symptoms you should _start_ looking out for, Bruce," she retorted tightly. "He's already displaying them." She started ticking them off on her fingers, not needing to consult the notes she held. "Depression, malaise, irritation, pain, fever swelling around the joint, restriction of movement, redness, and that's just the start of the list."

Alfred frowned, memories of the times he'd cared for this particular patient at the Manor moving to the forefront of his mind. "Oh dear. That is not going to be a pleasant combination."

"You're telling me," Roy laughed to brighten the somber mood as he remembered the relatively few times Dick had fallen sick at Titans Tower. "If there's one thing that Robbie's _not_, it's a patient patient."

Tim grinned suddenly. "Ten bucks says he'll be driving us bonkers within an hour of being lucid."

Roy smirked. "Kid, that is _so_ not even a bet."

Leslie licked her lips to cover her own smirk. "If I were a betting woman, which I'm not, I'd say it'd be even less time then that."

Tim's jaw abruptly tightened and he leaned forward on the couch. "Leslie, exactly how long has he been displaying those symptoms you listed, like depression and irritation and all that?"

Leslie cocked her head to side and eyed the young vigilante warily. Something told her that answering this question would not be a good idea, but what else could she do? They'd probably all seen the signs themselves. There was no point in lying about it. "Except for the fever, I'd say it's been a few days," she said quietly, "probably closer to a week. Why? I doubt it—"

"Hah!" Tim abruptly interrupted Leslie in mid-stream as he glared at Bruce. "_See?_ I _told_ you he wasn't ready for it, you bas—!"

"Master Timothy!"

The youth turned to face Alfred, a contrite look flickering across his features. "Sorry Alfred. I'll deposit a wad in the jar when we get back, okay?" But then he rounded back to Bruce, and it was as if the remorse hadn't been there at all. Instead, there was anger. Plenty of anger. "But I _still_ told you it wasn't the right time, didn't I? I _told_ you he was too ticked off at the world to listen. But you didn't listen to me, did you?" he spat, eyes sparking in such anger that even Bruce took half a step back. "And maybe if you _had_, Dick might still be talking to you, you fu—"

"Timothy Drake! That is a double penalty! Such language does not belong in company as this, even if it _is_ deserved," Alfred finished pointedly, cutting his eyes levelly towards Bruce.

"Okay, timeout, time_out_," Roy interrupted. Why did he feel that he was the only one who didn't know what everyone was talking about? And, as was his nature, he put his feelings into words in his typical forthright manner. "Mind tellin' me what the hell you all are talking about?"

"What I'm talking about," Tim seethed but quietly, forcing the words out through gritted teeth, blazing blue eyes still locked on Bruce, "is that _he_ told Dick who was looking after his Blüdhaven 'things' while he was sick. _Without_ asking him about it first."

"Ah." Roy nodded sagely, and said nothing more.

Because there was, indeed, nothing more to say.

Leslie closed her eyes and groaned inwardly, feeling the sick throb that signaled the coming of a killer headache start at the back of her head. _'Great. Just great.'_ While she definitely didn't approve of the whole vigilante thing, even she could see what a faux pas Bruce had just committed. And he'd done it while Dick was sick and in the wrong frame of mind to handle it. G-d, it seemed like each month he seemed to come up with new ways to show how lackluster his communication skills were. She and Alfred were certainly going to have their work cut out for them to straighten this mess out. "Be that as it may," she sighed finally, trying gamely to re-focus the meeting, "it still has no bearing on what I called you here for."

From his place behind Bruce near the room's window, Alfred shot her a subtle smile, no more than a twitch of his lips, but to her it seemed to light up the entire room. "So what _did_ you call us here for?"

She cast a quick thankful look Alfred's way, grateful for his help in keeping the discussion on track. "Now that we've already covered what he's got and the initial symptoms, I wanted to talk to all of you about his treatment," she began firmly. _'Maybe if I ignore the tension in this room long enough, it'll go away,'_ she thought to herself fleetingly. "It's good that he's here at the hospital; its truly the best place for him right now. There are a number of tests that have been done, and while there a few more that still need to be done, we've got a good idea of what's going on. Because of that, while I know you all want to see him ASAP, I have to ask that you see him one at a time. N—"

"I still don't understand why all that has to be done _here_."

She shouldn't have been so surprised that the interruption came from Bruce Maybe what did surprise her was that unspoken in his voice, beyond the technological pique, the stubbornness, and the possessiveness, there was more than a little bit of love. It wasn't often he showed that side of himself.

Leslie took a deep breath and wondered momentarily if it would help if she prayed for strength. "Because," she said, reaching yet _again_ for a patience she did not feel, "as I've already told you, we need the resources the hospital has available—"

"That _I_ don't?" Bruce broke in, mouth in a thin line. Meaning the Cave, of course. And the incredible array of technology and medicine and...other things that he had access to. Some of it genuine WayneTech resources, and the rest of it... well, not quite that. There were, after all, many advantages to being Batman. And to being a member of the JLA and having access to technology so advanced it was 'alien' both to the layman, and to many a scientist. Alfred cataloged the place weekly, and even he had confessed to her once that there was always something new each time.

"That is _not_ the point, Bruce," she retorted, trying very hard to keep the edge of frustration out of her voice. Because if that _was_ the point, then she'd quite gladly have young Richard down there in the Cave, in the infirmary, where she and Alfred would quickly exhaust themselves giving the kind of care he needed, where there was no access to the high-level antibiotics he needed... In the cold... In the dark... In a place that would be hard to justify when her patient would need urgent medical attention beyond her capabilities to provide. Because to get that attention, they could hardly bring the EMTs down to the Cave, could they? Nor would they necessarily be able to risk the time to get the patient upstairs to a more "presentable" and far more explainable room in the Manor to wait for the paramedics... And then there was the distance of the Manor to the Hospital itself to consider. There were simply too many risks, and they were risks she was unwilling to take, with this life, and under these circumstances.

No. And it wasn't just no. Hell no. Not in her lifetime.

She gritted her teeth and dug in her mental heels. "The resources at the Manor are _not_ the issue here. There are a number of things that are going to be happening over the next few days that the Manor is simply _not_ equipped to handle, no matter what you may think or what favors you may call in." The steel in her voice was not feigned. "So. Are you done?"

Bruce's lips thinned. "I still haven't heard a good enough reason why he was taken from the Manor and—"

Oh, the nerve of this man. "You will, once I've explained what's going on," she interrupted, her voice just as hard as his, her eyes smoldering with banked anger and frustration. Because, damn it, a semi-public waiting area was _not_ the place to be not-talking about Bat-things. This, more than anything else, was why she was so adamantly against the vigilante life. It made life harder and more complicated than it needed to be.

"But—"

"No, Bruce. Whatever it is you're about to say, _'no'_," she told him firmly, her tone cold enough to give Victor Fries a run for his money, "And since I'd like to get to the real reason why I called this discussion sometime before tonight, I'll ask you again. Are. You. Done?""

Bruce had the grace enough to _look_ suitably chastened. He nodded. "Yes, I'm done."

"Good," she snapped in return. Leslie glared at Bruce a moment longer, noticing but refusing to visibly acknowledge his unspoken _'for now'_ that had been appended on the end of his sentence. She'd been awake far too long to care what he thought, at this point. Heck, she'd been awake far too long than was healthy, but that was par for the course when it came to treating this family. Finally she forced herself to look away and focus on the rest of the room, but she still managed to keep a wary half-eye on Bruce. "Now, as I was saying, we've covered the basic symptoms of a bone infection, but there's more I want to discuss on that point. Later. But first, treatment options."

"You mean we have a choice?" Roy ventured, eyes widening slightly. "I thought infection treatment was pretty standard nowadays."

And how sad was that, that someone his age should know enough – have experienced enough of them – to think that? "Perhaps 'options' was a bad choice of words," she amended. "Think of it more along the lines of, well, 'the road ahead'." Which wasn't going to be pretty.

"Basically," she began, "a bone infection means that bacteria has made its way to the central tissue of the bone, the marrow, and is systematically destroying it. Thus, we need to destroy that bacteria before it does too much damage or spreads too far. One of the problems associated with that is going to be getting the antibiotics to the site of the infection. I won't go into it here, but there are a lot of logistical problems with trying to get meds directly inside the bone. So we'll be sticking to an intravenous administration. Now, I could get him started on a broad spectrum antibiotic right away, but I'd much rather wait until I get back the test results so we know what we're dealing with and can cater the meds accordingly."

"Why wait?" asked Tim, speaking up for the first time since she and Bruce had come to verbal blows over Dick's treatment. "Wouldn't it be best to start the IV right away and treat the infection as quick as possible?"

_'At least one of us is calmer now,'_ Leslie reflected to herself grimly. "Not really. If we use the wrong antibiotic, we run the risk of making things worse and running into an antibiotic-resistant strain of bacteria. Resistant bugs are, if you'll pardon me, a bitch to treat. I refuse to add to the number out there as a matter of principle," she smoothly replied. Because it was better to let them think it was a matter of principle. Her suspicions were worse. "There are also too many options. We have a number of different antibiotics we could use to treat this type of infection, and I don't particularly want to use the wrong one. They can have some nasty side-effects that I'd rather avoid. Which is why we've still got some tests scheduled. Once we get those results back, we'll know better what type of bug we're dealing with, and we'll start the intravenous treatment on that basis. It'll only delay the IV by a few hours, which shouldn't matter in the big scheme of things."

She made a show of consulting her notes before continuing. In truth, she had it all committed to memory – she just needed the breathing space it gave her to collect her thoughts again. "We also have to consider the surgical aspect."

"Surgical aspect?" Roy echoed. "Why the hell does he need _surgery?"_

"Because," she replied, once again calm and reasonably patient, "it is a standard treatment in cases like this. It's called _surgical debridement_ and, like most operations, I can assure you that it sounds worse than it actually is. The surgeon will have to open up his leg and remove all of the dead and infected tissue. It'll be replaced with an artificial structure to support the bone while it heals. Which is where I'll need your help. All of you."

"But why?" asked Tim, leaning forward on the couch. "Won't all the problem tissue be gone by then? And if the tissues gone, won't the infection go with it?"

"I'm afraid it's not that simple, Tim. Yes, the problem tissue should be gone after the surgery, and most of the symptoms will disappear with it, but that won't be the end of it. The bone will still be very weak, and I need all of you to help me make sure Dick doesn't end up in worse trouble than he already is."

Seeing that they seemed to be even more lost than before, she tried a different route. Shifting her notes under one arm, she held up a closed fist. "Right. Let's try it this way. Imagine for a moment that my fist is the cross-section of a bone. This is what it looks like normally." She opened her fist slightly, but kept her fingers touching her thumb, then rotated her fist for them all to see. "This is what Dick's femur looks like now. See the hole through the middle? That's where the bone marrow should be. The infection has eaten it all away, and we classify that hole as dead tissue. However, around the inside of the hole is all infected tissue that's about to die. What the surgeon will do is gain access to the bone, enter the bone marrow, and remove all the dead and infected tissue. Depending on how the infection was caused, they may also have to remove some connective tissue around the bone, and there may be some scarring. With me so far?"

A few nods. _'Ah, progress.'_

"So, with all that tissue gone, the hole will be even bigger." She opened her fist again, so that the tips her fingers barely touched the top-half of her thumb, and rotated her wrist again. "See how big it is now? That's the kind of cavity we're looking at. See how easily I can fit two of my fingers down there? There is no way we can leave the bone like that. What the surgeon will do is fit the cavity with an artificial structure, something like a synthetic lattice if you will, and leave it in place behind him. It stays in the bone, and," she slowly closed her fist, "the body slowly replaces the bone marrow over a period of a few weeks."

Tim looked decidedly pale as he stared at her fists, now lowered to her sides. "Is that really how bad it'll be?"

"That was a bit of an exaggeration of scale, because all I had to work with was my fist, but that's basically what we're looking at, yes."

Bruce's eyes narrowed. "How much of an exaggeration?"

"That, I can't answer. Not until I get back the results from the MRI and the bone biopsy he's got coming up this morning. Which brings me back to what I was talking about earlier. What I want your help with is this: you have to keep his leg as still as possible."

Donna stared at her. "Is that all?" she blurted. It just sounded so..._simple_. Surely there was something _more_ they could be doing.

"Yes. I can't emphasize enough the importance of that. Remember what I said about there being dead tissue in the middle of his bone? The femur is a very important bone in the human anatomy. Its part of the hip joint and the knee, and its also connected to a lot of muscles. The infection has weakened the bone, and if he moves that leg in the wrong way, it could put stress on the femur in the worst possible place. And while the femur is normally one of the strongest bones we have, because its been weakened by the infection, that undue stress could cause it to break. And a fracture in the femur is one of the worst fractures to have."

"Oh."

"Exactly." She flicked back to her notes once more. Breathing space. "Now, after he comes out of surgery, the risk is going to much higher, because the cavity in the bone is going to be bigger. That's why he'll need to be in a cast or brace for a few weeks while the bone marrow rebuilds itself. Actually, it will neatly coincide with the length of time he'll be needing the IV antibiotics anyway, so there'll be a dual purpose to having him flat on his back for three to four weeks."

"That long?" Alfred queried faintly, visions of an increasingly twitchy and cabin-fevered Grayson running through his head. He knew full well he should stay and run interference but...didn't he have relatives he should visit? Somewhere? He was sure he could find them...

"That long. No weight-bearing on his leg _at all_ until we're sure that the bone marrow's back where it should be."

"Ouch," Roy winced. "That's _definitely_ not going to be pleasant."

"I don't care whether or not it's going to be pleasant," she retorted, well past the point of being pleasant herself with him. She had a headache she should've taken some aspirin for ages ago – or maybe some Tylenol – and yet here she was, having this conversation instead! "If he puts any weight on that leg before its ready, he runs the risk of splintering it into so many pieces, they'll be picking them out of his backside for years. And that'll be _before_ I get through with him. Are we clear on that?"

Roy gulped, wondering for a stray moment if there was a chair he could hide behind. "Yes ma'am."

"Good." She fixed him with a pointed look while speaking to the room in general. "And you'll all be here help him out, I'm sure, so the rehabilitation he'll need won't be a problem."

"Yes ma'am," the room chorused.

"Good," she smiled sweetly, just to keep them all off balance. "Any questions?"

Silence. Then:

"Um, Doctor Leslie..."

Her face instantly softened as she shifted her gaze. "Yes, Tim?"

"I couldn't help but notice that you've said why we need to keep Dick's leg still medically, but, um, you haven't said much about _how_."

Ah yes, and she knew what he was really asking, but didn't want to voice. The real 'why'. _'Why them?' _"I simply need someone to be with him at all times to keep watch and make sure he doesn't move around too move, and the rest will come naturally to you. To be honest, it's either this, or I come up with some type of restraint system for his leg."

"No." Bruce spoke first, his voice cutting through the entire room. "That is _not_ an option. I'll work something out."

"Yes," Donna coolly shot straight back, "_we'll_ work it out." Her tone made clear that whatever it was, it had better include Bat and Titan alike, or they'd answer to _her_. There were, after all, advantages to being an Amazon.

Tim shuddered, and did his best to shake off the chill that had seemed to fall over the room. "Do we have to let Dick know we're there to help him keep his leg still?"

"I'm sure he'll figure it out fairly quickly," Roy answered, before Leslie could respond. "Robbie's pretty quick that way."

"In any case," Leslie continued smoothly, "I should warn you that it won't be easy. I can tell you that he's already running a fever. We'll start him on antibiotics as soon as we get the test results back, but they will take a while to take effect, and will initially drive the fever up higher before it'll start to go down. So it's going to get worse before it can get better. In fact, if his temperature continues rising like it is, he'll probably slide into delirium at some point tonight or early tomorrow, which will make keeping his leg still even harder. It's not going to be easy on you if you stay with him," she warned, her gaze traveling around the room to meet each of their eyes in turn.

Roy's jaw tightened stubbornly. "Doc, let me put this way: Easy ain't for superheroes. And besides, I owe him."

Donna nodded, a small grin playing on her lips. "Titans together and all that."

Tim grinned outright, but his eyes were serious. "Just try moving me from beside his bed. Because you're gonna need an army. And even then you'd lose."

Bruce just gave her a look that would've been indecipherable to those that didn't know him outside of family. "I'm staying," he said quietly, but no less firmly.

Alfred looked properly indignant at the mere suggestion that he be anywhere else. "I think our sentiments are all quite clear on this matter," he answered dryly.

"I'm not questioning your devotion," she replied. "I'm just saying that it's not going to be an easy or kind path to travel. For one thing, as the infection progresses, the symptoms won't be pleasant." She held up her fingers and started counting them off on them. "Like I warned you, he'll be feeling even more depressed and irritated than he already is. Along with that, there'll be a fever that might go up into delirium if the antibiotics don't work. That's even assuming we can find the right meds in time to do the surgery under optimum conditions."

Alfred nodded slowly, his features composed. "What happens if it doesn't respond to treatment?"

"We basically have a thirty-six hour timeframe," she answered truthfully, even as she carefully concealed her relief to have the discussion progressing smoothly. "We absolutely _have_ to remove the dead and infected tissue before it poisons the rest of his system, and before he loses too much bone structure. If we can't find an antibiotic within our timeframe, or haven't identified the bacterium that's causing it, we'll ask permission to proceed with the surgery regardless. He'll be sedated, hopefully beyond the effects of the fever, and the surgeon will get out as much tissue as possible. But," she hastened to add, holding up a hand to forestall any protests that were no doubt forming, "that is also one of our worse-case scenarios."

"You mean there are others?" Roy prodded.

"Yes," she answered honestly. "But I really don't think you want me to go down that path right now. I think I've given you all enough to think about right now." Except for what she had yet to discuss with them. Damn, but duty of care could be so inconvenient at times. She hated having to scare good people. "Now, I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask one last thing of all of you. Actually," she amended, "this isn't so much of a request as it is a requirement. When you see him, I'm afraid I can only permit it if you limit all skin contact."

Tim was the first to find his voice. "But—"

"No, Tim," she interrupted firmly but gently. On this she could not shift. Ever. "I know. I know it sounds unreasonable. I know it sounds harsh. But you have to believe that it's in your best interests right now. The various bacteria that cause the kind of infection we're looking at can be very deadly and contagious, and I want to limit their spread as much as possible. That's why I'm asking you avoid all skin contact for the foreseeable future. I don't want to face having to treat more people with this kind of infection when it can be so easily prevented." _'Deep breath.'_ "Oh, and I'll give you fair warning. Once the test results come back, the precautions may well elevate to wearing gowns and gloves whenever you go near him. It's simply standard procedure."

Roy barked a short, hoarse laugh that fooled no one. "You sure 'bout that? Sounds pretty serious to me."

"It is." Leslie agreed with a sigh, and then shrugged. "But, that's also getting near one of our worse-case scenarios. It might not be that bad." _'Yet.'_ But she didn't have much hope. It was why she didn't want to talk about the test results they'd gotten back so far. "And remember, like I said, it's standard procedure. These bugs can be very, very nasty. Hopefully, we've caught this one before its spread too far."

She looked around the room, silently assessing her patient's family and friends and their reactions. "And that's about it. Any questions?"

"I have one," Donna prodded, after a moment of silence. "Exactly how far can it spread?"

Oh, they had to ask. "Well, into his knee, for one thing, because it's the closer joint. At that point, it becomes what we call _infectious arthritis_, which is much harder to treat. Or, it can work its way towards the external surface of the bone and reach his blood stream through the femoral artery. If that happens, it could re-surface anywhere in the body, and we'd have a secondary infection on our hands. If it doesn't enter the blood stream, it could keep working its way up and out, reach the skin, and form an ulcer. A very nasty ulcer." She shrugged. "Like I said, worse-case scenarios."

Roy looked decidedly green. "Gah, baby-doll. Why'd ya have to ask? I could've done without that image in my head."

Leslie just shrugged again and said nothing. She was a firm believer in the principle that if someone asked a question, then they were ready to hear the answer...or as much of the answer as she had to give. Not that she was always happy with the answers she had to give, or the way she had to give them, but that was the way life was, and she made no apologies for it. Life was too short for anything else.

It just meant she was hoping they wouldn't think to ask her the right questions. Because then she'd have to answer them.

She quickly switched her gaze to the rest of the room. "Anything else?" Because she was really hoping that the response would be 'no'.

Donna shifted on the couch. "Actually, I have another question. How much of this does Robbie know? How much has he been told?"

Ah, another question she'd been dreading. Maybe she really should've quit while she was ahead. Or behind. Now how on earth was she going to answer this one? In the end, she settled on a shrug and a half-truth. "I 'explained' to Dick osteomyelitis and its effects."

Bruce shot her a look, afraid that he knew exactly what she was and wasn't saying. "And by 'explained' you mean..."

"I told him without him knowing I've told him."

Roy's jaw dropped. "Uh... Is that really ethical?"

She gave him one of her ambiguous smiles, a faint twinkle in her eyes. It wasn't often she put one over the Bat Clan members, and she'd learnt to enjoy her moments when she could. "You have to understand, Roy, he's already running a slight fever. He's not completely lucid right now." She grinned outright. "And besides, he asked for the information, _and_ he comprehended most of it."

Donna smiled knowingly. "He would. Even as sick as anything, he would ask." She gave a light laugh. "Trust Robbie to understand it even when he's running a fever."

Alfred smiled at Donna, giving the young Titan the sense that he would have leaned over and patted her arm if he'd been within reach. "It's all part of his charm, Miss Donna."

Roy snorted. "Charm? More like a personality defect."

"Hey!" Tim cried, shooting to his feet and glaring at Roy. "That's my brother you're defaming there!"

Giving an internal sigh, Leslie called the meeting to order yet again. "Boys, boys, please. Take it outside if you can't control yourselves. And I mean _outside_ outside." Where it was cold, windy, and felt like it might snow at any moment. Or sleet, which was as close as Gotham got to snow at this time of year. A rotten place to be at any rate, and a really good threat to shut anyone up.

"Now, any more questions? Or are you all done?"

Silence.

_'Ah, bliss.'_ And thank goodness for all that. She'd had enough of explaining for one day. "Good." Now for the tricky bit: getting Donna to go in first. "Now, Dick has asked to see you but, as you now know, we have to be careful about this because of contagions. That's why I mentioned at the start of all this that when you do go in, you only go in one at a time to see him. Donna, would you mind..."

Donna grinned, not even giving the doctor a chance to finish. "Sure. As long as we've been out here talking, Robbie's probably gone all twitchy with no one to keep him company. Of course I don't mind."

Leslie made an effort to smile at them, and nodded. "Then go on ahead, Donna. I'll be there in just a few minutes, okay? Just don't forget what I told you about touching and keeping his leg still."

Despite herself and despite the reminders, Donna cheered immensely at the prospect of a few minutes of uninterrupted time with one of her best friends, without anyone else around. Hospitals weren't exactly a stellar place for privacy, they'd all found. She returned the smile with a cheery grin of her own on her way out of the room. "Sure thing, I'll see you in a few."

That done, Leslie turned back to face the room. And the most unpleasant task of all. "Now, Bruce, Alfred, would you mind if I had a word with you? In private?"

She watched in tacit amusement as the two exchanged a glance – a conversation in one look. But then she'd expected as much, hadn't she? She did it often enough with Alfred herself.

The pair stood. But it was Alfred that smiled and nodded at her offer. "Certainly, my dear. Lead the way."

Which wasn't to say that Bruce didn't smile, but his was far too forced for her liking – and Alfred's too, judging by the look they'd just shared and the quick straightening of Bruce's shoulders, the smoothing of his features. She had to turn away to hide her grimace – there was always going to be a part of Bruce that was the child they'd struggled to raise after his parents died. And thank goodness for that. Goodness alone knew how they'd keep him under a modicum of control otherwise, now that he was an adult. Or supposed to be one, anyway.

Shaking herself out of her thoughts, not liking the direction in which they'd been traveling, Leslie led the two into a private examination room and shut the door behind them. After a moment's thought, she locked the door and pulled down the shade as well. '_There. Now we won't be disturbed for anything baring my pager and a major emergency.'_

"Okay Leslie," Bruce said somberly, dropping all pretenses of cheer. "Explain all the subterfuge. What do you have to say that couldn't be said in front of the others?"

Leslie took in a single deep breath and let it out slowly, steeling herself mentally and physically for what was to come. It was a much-shortened technique she'd learned long ago for gathering her thoughts, and her strength. Often times, there wasn't time for anything else in the Clinic or on the wards. "Alright then," she told them, "I'll tell you. How much time have you spent with him recently?"

"You'll have to define what you mean by 'recently', I'm afraid," Alfred replied, a small smile playing on his lips. "He _has_ been in here for the last day or so."

Leslie smiled back, and felt the tiny knot of tension between her shoulders finally ease slightly. Good ol' Alfred. At least he could always be counted on to read her mood and do what he could to counter it. "Okay, let's try it this way then. Bruce, you did a massage on his thigh, right?"

A pensive nod.

"And I take it you were helping him to do various things while he was at the Manor, Alfred?"

Alfred nodded serenely. "But of course." Much to Dick's protestations otherwise.

She paused a moment, wishing there was an easier way to say this. But there was no 'easy' way, was there? Nothing to do but to plunge right in, like a swimmer into a flood, and hope her skills – and the water depth – would be enough to stay buoyant. "Did either of you notice anything...off about him?"

Both men froze. The temperature in the room seemed to drop a few degrees. "Wha—What do you mean?" Bruce prodded finally, his face paler than it had been before. As well it should be. They remembered all too clearly the long list of things they'd had to watch out for when the young man was fresh out of the hospital. It had been a long wait until the results from the tests that had cleared him from brain damage had come back. How on earth they'd managed to keep it from Dick was a mystery, but one they'd largely put down to the drugs – he had been high on painkillers more often than not, at the time.

She mentally cursed when she realised where his thoughts were going. "I don't mean it like that, Bruce." Even though she did, really, when you got down to it. From a certain point of view. But sometimes it was better to placate than reveal. "I'm talking about reaction times, actually."

"Reaction times?"

A nod. "Yes. Normally, he hides his pain really well, so well in fact that I can't even see it when I'm looking straight at him. But lately..."

"Its all too obvious," Bruce finished for her, his voice quiet, almost as if he knew what she was thinking, what she was afraid of. And maybe he did. This was, after all, the genius mind behind the Batman, the brilliant mind behind the billionaire playboy and CEO executive.

"...It's as though he can't react in time to hide the pain he is feeling," Alfred added quietly.

"Exactly." Maybe they did understand. Maybe they did know where she was going with this.

"But like you've been saying, Leslie, doesn't he have a lot on his plate right now?"

Or maybe not. Was she really going to have to spell it out for him? G-d, Bruce could be thick. Yes, she'd expected denial, but this? Time to dig in her mental heels again. "Not when you consider his normal reaction rates, Bruce. He's got you out-ranked, remember?" Which was precisely why she'd chosen to have this little tête-à-tête in here, and not in public. Batman did have his pride, or so the rumor went. And heaven help the soul who found out Batman's own son was faster than _him_. Not even Dick knew that little gem.

"Now," she continued firmly, her voice tight, "I know you won't like the idea, but you're going to have to consider letting me talk to a neurologist at the very least about his case."

"A neurologist?" Alfred echoed, his features pale.

_'Why oh why do people assume the worst whenever I mention the 'n' word?'_ She should've known that reaction was coming. "It's merely procedure, Alfred. I don't have the necessary authority to sign-off on the tests he needs to see what's going on upstairs in that brain of his."

Alfred frowned. She could practically see the cogs working. "But why are you talking to us? Isn't the young master still quite capable of making his own decisions about his treatment?" Unspoken was the wordless fear they all shared now. _'What if...what if he wasn't...?'_

Damn, but she hated being the bearer of bad news. Best to address the unspoken first, then. "I never said he was that bad yet, Alfred," she told them, shaking her head firmly. "I was just warning you, that's all. I want you to be aware of the worst-case scenario, so you'll know why I want to get some tests done. Now."

"What tests?" Bruce, again. Ever the voice of reason, even when he didn't want to be.

"The main thing now is an MRI of the skull. Preferably at the same time as the one of his leg to save time. It'll tell us if we're dealing with any brain damage."

Alfred stared at her, heart breaking all over again. His voice, however, was rock steady. "But I thought you said that his scans for brain damage were clean," he broke in.

She shook her head again, her gray eyes apologetic. "I'm sorry Alfred, Bruce. I can check, but I'm pretty certain that the scans they ran at the time were CT scans. His concussion would've ruled out anything else, Even if they had run an MRI back then, it wouldn't have shown anything worthwhile. But now that the swelling's gone down, we can take advantage of the much greater clarity the MRI has over the CT scans to take a much closer look and see what is happening."

"So, what you're saying is that the scans they did didn't have the clarity to tell us what we needed to know?" Bruce persisted, eyes flinty, fists clenched. "And he was cleared anyway?"

Despite herself, Leslie flinched. She knew that look all too well. It too often meant a Bruce – or a Bat – on the warpath. She personally only ever saw it when he was in Bruce-mode when the life of one of his sons was at stake. Knowing that didn't make it any more pleasant to be around. Nor any less brutal, especially when it was directed at her. As it was now. "I was only passing on what I was told at the time, Bruce, that the scans were clear," she told him, forcing her voice to be quiet and calm in the face of his ire, to not show her own measure of fear and intermingled anger. It was probably one of the hardest things she'd done today. "If anything, the fault is mine for not pushing to get an MRI done earlier, the first time I noticed this happening."

"It's not your fault, my dear," Alfred soothed, laying his hand on hers, a warm smile on his face if not fully in his worried eyes. "As you said, you were not at fault for what other doctors passed on to you."

"What could the causes be?" Bruce asked suddenly, his brow furrowed, his tone dark and unyielding. It might be Bruce, but there was a very thin veneer concealing the Bat beneath the surface. "Even if you didn't pick up on what was going on, surely you have _some_ idea as to the cause."

Leslie opened and closed her mouth. She closed her eyes for a moment too, as she struggled with conflicting sentiments, both soothing and confronting. Struck hard by the conflict, it was all she could do to hang on. She knew then that she was far too exhausted this early in the morning. She needed sleep. She _craved_ sleep. Short of that, she needed that damn aspirin and a few minutes – or hours – to herself.

_'Later',_ she promised herself. _'Deal with that later. Get through this first.'_

She opened her eyes and focused on Bruce, mentally storing Alfred's words away and promising herself that she would take she would consider them later when she had the time and energy. Not that she thought it'd help – some mistakes required more than words and kind gestures to atone for them.

"Bruce," she stated slowly, gathering patience she didn't quite feel, "you'll have to be a little more specific. Given everything we've talked about in the last fifteen or so minutes, are you talking about Dick's mind or his leg?"

Bruce frowned. "His leg, at the moment."

She sighed and nodded, recognizing avoidance tactics when she saw them. But she'd humor him...for now. It _was_ a lot to absorb, after all. "Well then, you know as well as I do that there are a number of different ways that the infection could have gotten into his system. To be perfectly frank, I'm not sure that we have the time to waste tracking them all down and eliminating them when we could spend it treating the infection and getting him better." She really didn't want to have to pull out the 'big guns' to get him to agree with her on this, but she would. "You see, Bruce, the longer we wait, the more dangerous it is. It's already been ten days. That means he's already lost—"

"What about the bullets?" Bruce interrupted before she could continue further. "Did they get everything out? Or could there be some fragment left in his leg poisoning his system?"

Leslie sighed to herself and barely refrained from pinching the bridge of her nose. The only reason she decided to let him to get away with interrupting her was because he was controlling the Bat again. If he hadn't, there really _would_ have been hell to pay. And besides, she _really_ didn't want to have voice what she'd been about to say. "Honestly? I don't think that's possible," she finally replied. "I saw the post-operative films, for one thing. And if anything was left behind, we would've known about it long before now."

"How so?" Alfred queried, tilting his head to the side slightly, curiousity shining in his eyes.

"The infection would be much worse than it already is, for one thing." She summoned up a weak smile for him. "And we wouldn't have as much of a chance of saving his leg as we do now."

"I see," the aged butler replied, his face abruptly shuttering at that final sentence. He'd known it was bad, of course he did; he'd been there for the briefing just now, but that serious...?

"So if it's not a leftover bullet fragment, then what else?" Bruce asked then, as if he was unaware that the other two had been talking around him. Maybe he was, maybe he wasn't. It was always hard to tell such things with Bruce. "What about external sources?"

"External sources?" Alfred found himself echoing with a frown as he followed the Master's thought processes. "Do you mean the hospital itself, Master Bruce?"

"Not possible," Leslie interrupted, before Bruce could answer. "Like I just told Dick myself just a few minutes ago, Rabe Memorial isn't on any of the watch lists for the kind of bacteria we're looking at here. It's managed to escape that particular curse so far."

Bruce's frown deepened. "Then can you give me a sample too of whatever you collect, please Leslie? I'll want to have a look at it."

_'Well, at least he said please,'_ Leslie snorted to herself. Outwardly, she just sighed again and shrugged. "I'll see what I can do, Bruce, but no promises. It'll mean taking another sample of bone from Dick, and that may not be possible...and it won't be easy to hide, either." Why on earth was she humoring him with this, anyway? She shook herself down mentally and changed tacks. "Anyway, getting back to what we were originally talking about, is there anything else you wanted to ask?"

Bruce looked up after a moment, his eyes somehow hollow in the light. "What do we do now?"

"Now?" Great. Was he asking about the infection or the MRI or the neurological data? And hadn't she just spent all this time answering questions like that?? Probably best to reply generally and see what she got back from them. "We wait for the tests to come back, and hope we get them before the infection takes too firm a hold."

Alfred frowned at that, not liking the words or the phrasing. "What do you mean, 'too firm a hold'?"

_'Well, apparently I haven't spent enough time after all.'_ "The fever, Alfred. It's going to be a pretty good gauge of how strong a grip the infection has on him, and of how well the antibiotics are working. I don't need to warn you about what it'll be like if we start facing delirium and seizures." She held up a hand to forestall the expected words. "And don't worry. We'll all be doing our best to make sure it never gets to that point, but forewarned is forearmed."

"Indeed."

She flashed him a quick, subtle grin, trying to lighten the worried look on his face. "Now if there's nothing else, it's about time we wrap this up. I'm sure you've got things to do Bruce, and I've got rounds to get back to."

Bruce nodded and turned away. He took a single step, hesitated, then slowly turned back to face her. "Oh, and Leslie?"

_'Oh G-d.'_ Why did that expression not look good? "Yes?"

"You said something about his hand last night that I didn't quite catch. What was it again?"

_'Drat.'_ She was afraid of that. It had been too much to hope that her casually dropped warning would slip past him. Time to 'think on her feet' again. "Only that it doesn't seem to be healing as fast as it should, given Dick's normal rates of recovery. It's probably because all his reserves are going towards fighting the infection in his leg." At least, that was what she was hoping.

Bruce nodded, his expression slightly dubious. "I see."

And she knew exactly what he wasn't saying, too. "Look, since he's here at the hospital, I'll schedule some tests, and make sure it isn't anything more serious than that. But Bruce, you have to understand that I'm more worried about getting him through this infection right now. The next few hours are going to be critical. His hand has waited this long. A few more hours aren't going to matter." Well, hopefully not. While she wasn't an orthopedic surgeon, she knew the risks as well as anyone, and as supervising doctor of his case, this was her call...and her's alone. And if it all went south, it would be all her fault too. It was a fine balancing act that she'd wish on no one.

"Do you have anything else you need to know?" she asked finally. "Because I really do have things I need to do."

Bruce shook his head, and tried not to look irritated. "No. I just need a new secretary again. This last one keeps giving me early-morning meetings."

"You could talk to Lucius about it," Leslie pointed out, in what she thought was a reasonable tone.

"Or I could talk to Lucius about it," he agreed, willingly enough, and dropped the matter. "Coming, Alfred?"

"But of course." He turned to give her a winning smile. "After you, my dear."

_'Oh, hell.'_ Now this was going to be awkward. "Oh, uh, just go on without me, would you? I need to make a few notes on his chart now that I've talked to all of you." She placed her clipboard on a table in the room then retrieved and uncapped a pen in one of her pockets as though to carry through with her words.

Bruce nodded and turned to go. Alfred shot her a look, as though he didn't quite believe her, but turned to follow his employer out regardless. Well, actually, he followed by somehow beating Bruce to the door – even though he'd started to move towards it last – and unlocked and held it open for Bruce. He then moved to go through it himself.

_'Do it. Do it now.'_ Steeling herself, Leslie quickly crossed to the door and plucked Alfred's sleeve as he was about to leave the room. "Alfred? May I have a word?" she asked quietly.

The aging major domo stepped back into the room and let the door swing shut behind him. "Anything for you, my dear."

She breathed deeply and slowly, willing herself to stay calm for this. "Remember when I told Donna that I'd told Dick what was going on?"

He nodded. "Yes, but of course."

She braced herself for this, knowing full well that she could bear anything but his disappointment. And spoke the words anyway.

"I lied."

Alfred froze, then turned away. "I see."

She hurried on, knowing only gratitude that he hadn't shrugged off her hand on his arm. But oh, how it hurt to feel how stiff he was beneath her gentle touch. "Well, not really. It was true what I said, that he was running a fever at the time. I was only able to tell him a little bit, about the definition of a bone infection itself, and the basic details of the treatment plan. I only went as fair as the upcoming tests, the IV treatment with antibiotics and the fact that he'll have to spend a few weeks flat on his back."

Silence. And that was worse than any of his most damning replies.

She continued anyway. "Don't you see, Alfred?" she pleaded. She just _had_ to make him understand the position she was in. "I couldn't do it to him. Not right then. It's bad enough that he's facing a few _weeks_ of being trapped in a bed. I _couldn't_ tell him about the surgery and all the risks involved as well." She swallowed, hard, and softened her voice into her gentlest tones. "Please. You didn't see it, my friend. You didn't see what he was like."

Silence.

Then:

"It was that bad?" he asked softly, still facing away from her.

Would it break doctor/patient confidentiality to say these words? Oh please, G-d forgive her if it did. "I'm glad he's here," was all she finally said, closing her eyes a brief moment to mentally whisper a brief prayer of forgiveness.

To her relief, Alfred seemed to understand immediately. "I see. _Thank-you._" _For keeping him safe._

Heartened, she kept her hand on his arm. Maybe there was hope after all, for he still didn't shake her off, even if he continued to face away from her, proud bearing unwavering.

She took another deep breath, let it out slowly, and steeled her courage yet once more. "That's why I want to ask a favour of you, Alfred."

Silence. Then, faintly, "Of me?"

She nodded, even though he would never see it with his back turned. She knew he'd still sense it anyway. "Yes. _You_. I want you to be there, with him. I want someone both of us can trust to be there with him and for him, as much as possible."

He shook his head, his tone and body language like steel once more. "I'm not the best choice."

"I think you are." Because he still hadn't shaken her hand off. "He _trusts_ you, Alfred. You know he does. He needs someone there who can ground him through what's to come, someone who knows exactly what's coming."

"His friends..."

"Won't be enough," she finished for him, encouraged by the slight relaxation of muscles under hand. Instead of steel, now she was touching plastic. Still hard, but pliable as well. "Not for this." She inhaled deeply and held it. "You _know_ him, Alfred. You know what he's like when he's sick. A lot more than his friends do. You've lived with him and around him for much longer. You've run the gamut of emotions with him, you know how to coax him through it, instead of humoring him."

"But..."

"I'm not talking negatively of his friends Alfred," she retorted, sure of what he was about to say. "You know I wouldn't." Even if she didn't understand how she could be friends with some of them, she wouldn't speak badly of them. Not for her Dick. If he'd picked them as friends, then that was enough for her. "I'm sure they're quite capable heroes in their own right, and I know they wouldn't coddle him either. They'd do what's necessary, yes. But that isn't what I'm talking about." Another deep breath. "You're the most experienced with him, Alfred. He _trusts_ you. I've seen it. And he'll need that trust to get him through what's to come."

But Alfred was shaking his head, although he did relax still further under hand. And now, he came to the real reason for his objections. "No. I cannot. Bruce. I let Bruce—"

Once again, Leslie cut him off, knowing exactly what he was going to say. "No, Alfred. You didn't. You're _not_ at fault for Bruce's bull-headed mistakes where his son is concerned. That has nothing to do with you. And if Dick doesn't see that now, he will, once he gets a clear head on his shoulders." Of that, she had no doubt, even though it might take her a few quiet conversations with Dick to get there.

And now it was time for the clincher. "But also, you _understand_, Alfred. What I've said about what he's facing...and what I _haven't_ said. And that's why I want you there."

"I see it now" he finally responded, a trace of bitterness bleeding his dulcet tones. "You want me to cover for you."

"No." _'Yes.'_ "It's not like that at all." _'But it is. It is.'_

"You want me to cover for you when he realizes what's going on," he persisted, his tone hardening again, his back still to her. And oh, how it _hurt_.

She closed her eyes and dropped her hand, unable to stand it – to stand herself – any longer. And caved. "Yes, I haven't told him the risks. I told you the truth that I couldn't. Then, yes, I suppose I've lied by omission. I'll have to live with that. You _have_ to believe me, Alfred. I'm trying to act in his best interests as I see them right now. You _know_ I don't do this lightly. Not with _his_ life."

Because even though she cared personally about all her patients, with Dick it was more so. He had a way of engaging people, of charming the living daylights out of them when he put his mind to it – and even when he didn't. And she'd been one of his victims from the start. The moment she'd laid eyes on him, when he'd been a grieving kid fresh from the streets and on the run from Juvie and from the child-care system that had placed him there, he'd captured her heart with bruised blue eyes far too old for his body. And it had _never_ stopped. Because she'd give up her life for his, if she thought he needed her to. She'd move the world for him, if she could. She'd do anything – and have no regrets – if she thought it would help him. It was one of her most closely guarded secrets.

To her relief, Alfred understood her meaning without her having to explain. He relaxed once more and nodded slowly. "Yes," he said softly, "he has a way of doing that, doesn't he? Getting in where he ought not?" She could her the soft smile in that much-loved voice, now. "It's those eyes of his, and that smile."

"Then you know why I want you with him," she replied just as softly, forcing her voice not to waver. It would not do to give her secret out now, not when she'd kept it faithfully for so long.

He sighed and nodded once more. "Yes. I do. And I will do it." He bowed his head. "For him."

Not, she noticed with a pang, for her. But that was her own doing, wasn't it?

Only then, when he turned to face her did she see the traitorous tears streaking covertly down his cheeks. Had he—had he been crying the whole time? "Oh my Leslie," he murmured softly, as he turned and pulled her in, "what do you do to me?"

She told herself it was for his sake that she let him hold her. She told herself it was for his sake that she held him close and let him pour his emotions onto her shoulder. But in so doing, she found that she shed her own tears for what she'd lost this morning.

And then tears dried, eventually, as they always did, and the two composed themselves. And he found her too the aspirin she'd been wanting for so long. Then, and only then, did they go back to face the world once more.

Together. If somehow still apart.

* * *

The match flared brightly in the pitch darkness of the room. A hand immediately came up and cupped the flame, protecting it from the drafts that came with residing in an old building, as the match was guided to its target. For a moment, deep shadows of a face were revealed before the flame touched a cigarette, lighting its end before being shaken out roughly. 

The flame flickered out obediently, returning the room once more into darkness, except where the embers at the end of the cigarette flickered. Not that any of the room's occupants really minded the darkness. At least one of them, though, took exception to the smell and the smoke.

"Those things are gonna kill ya one day," a voice drawled from the other side of the room, where the shadows were still heavy.

"Oh, shut ya big fat mouth," the owner of the cigarette answered roughly. "Are we gonna do this or what?"

"Well, I certainly didn't call you here to shoot the breeze," a third one spoke, with more than a hint of a British accent in his voice. "You all know what we're here for."

"Diablo," the smoker answered succinctly, a world of malicious glee in his voice. He was looking forward to this.

"And the rest," a fourth man spoke up, softly, menacingly.

"You all know the location," the British man took over smoothly, "and the time. We've got the gear I asked for. If you don't want in, speak up now or forever hold your peace."

Silence. No one even moved.

"Then we're a go. We take the hospital today." Vicious smiles found their way onto the faces around the room.

"Move out!"

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**_**Next up/Teaser:**_ Danger strikes, and Dick's running hot. In more ways than one.


	4. Under Siege

_**Summary:**_ Under siege in a hospital is _not_ a good place to be running a fever and an infection...  
_**Notes:**_ A bit of a departure from the overt seriousness of the last chapter, I'm afraid. But don't worry. I know where I'm going. I think. grin Oh, and if this sounds strange and a little disjointed at points, just remember: Dick wasn't a part of the conversation in the last chapter – he doesn't know why everything is happening. There is also the matter of said fever...and he's on good drugs.  
Um, yeah, one last thing. Remember what I said a chapter or so ago about me not showing a minute-by-minute accounting of events this time around? It seems I lied. Well, not really. I _was_ telling the truth up until this bunny bit. sigh I really need to get out more...  
_**PS:**_ This is actually the start of what was originally a longer chapter that I had to cut short, but it stands well enough on its own. It just took a lot longer than I ever expected for them to get out of _that_ room. You'll see what I mean. :-) And after having written the stupid thing, I'm not inclined to try and write something else to give you all that'll end up of lesser quality. (And that's after my three wonderful betas have pounded it into shape...)

Now, off with you! Enjoy the fruits of my labors!

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**CALL OF DUTY  
Obstacle Course**

**4. Under Siege**

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Staying in a hospital was boring. 

The air-conditioning was always set far too cold. The beds were uncomfortable and hard. The doctors were as boring as the decor and liked to hear themselves talk, except for Leslie. She was the only doctor around here who actually made any sense, and that was probably because she was the only one who talked _to_ me, not around me. The nurses, while nice, usually had cold hands, and I'd quickly found out that I much preferred it when the hands touching me were warm.

Check-ups, on the other hand, were hell. And I had to suffer through one every few hours.

And each time it was over, I had the difficult job of getting comfortable again on a bed not designed for it. Not to mention trying not to blush when the nurse had to assist me with that. Definitely blackmail material, and something to make me glad about the hospital policy of banishing all visitors from the room during an examination.

This morning's nurse was brunette, slim, curvy, strong as an ox, with 'Abella' on her nametag, but still not as pretty as my Barbara in my opinion. I'd had her before, and had her most mornings in fact. And trust me, familiarity did _not_ make the indignity any easier to bear. First she had to move my leg back into place – always wearing gloves for that, I'd noticed. Then she had to ease me back onto the pillows, thanks to the broken ribs and damaged chest muscles that still weren't fully healed from when I got shot about three weeks ago.

I probably would have been healing faster if I was allowed around to move a little more. Respiratory therapy had been helping my upper-torso mobility, but for some reason that had gone out the window when I'd been admitted. As for my leg, I wasn't allowed to move _that_ at all. Not that I'd been inclined to try, especially since they'd done the biopsy on it.

Having just endured yet another check-up, I definitely wasn't up to doing much of anything. In simplest terms, _I hurt_. These exams always took a lot out of me, and made it hard for me to do the simplest tasks for ages afterwards. Hence the need for the nurse to help me get settled again...and the painkillers I'd just reluctantly taken to help with all that.

It wasn't long before I was as comfortable as I was going to get, which really wasn't saying much. Even with the drugs, I still had a few too many aches in a few too many places to find a position which _didn't_ put pressure on at least one place where it shouldn't.

This was getting old _very_ fast. Would it be too much of a cliché to say I was sick and tired of being sick and tired?

_'Now, now, Grayson. You've still got company, remember?'_ Oh. Company. Right. At least I'd remembered my manners in time. "Thanks, 'Bella," I murmured when she was done and I was settled under the blankets again. I flashed her a wan smile when I felt I could breathe again. "Much 'preciated."

"You're welcome, hon." She smiled warmly at me in return, showing me a row of even, white teeth. She obviously had good dental care, and used chapstick to take care of those lips. I even got a wink for my trouble.

I sighed and closed my eyes wearily. While it _was_ nice to know 'I still had it', without even trying, it wasn't exactly something I needed to confirm right that instant. Besides, I wasn't that keen to have Barbara see nurses hitting on me. It just might interfere with my chances of getting my once-a-year kiss under the mistletoe. _'Now _that's_ the best tradition ever invented.'_

Closing my eyes wasn't exactly a good idea, though. With the amount of pain medications in my system, it was all too easy to let the sedatives take over and to start drifting once my eyes were closed and there wasn't anything to distract me. It wasn't much of a difference from there between drifting and sleeping.

Now actually _staying_ asleep . . . that was a different matter entirely.

Drifting could be a lot of fun, though. It was amazing, the places where my mind could go when – if – I let it. Not –_yawn_– to mention . . . a little –_yawn_– scary . . .

**  
**"...Dick?"

_'Never fails. Fall asleep and somebody always wants me...' _"Mmmm?" It took a while, but I managed to pry my eyes open at the sound of the gentle voice. It only took me a moment to realize that Nurse Bella had gone back to wherever she'd come from. Another few seconds, and I recognized the voice. "Donna?" I jerked my eyes open wider, trying to force myself at least partly awake. "Wha—?"

"It's nothing major, Dick," she reassured me, her voice as soothing as her pat on my good leg was, even through the blanket covering me. "Well, I'd guess that depends on what you define as major. I just thought you might want to be awake for when lunch gets here."

Oh.

Wait a minute. Lunch? But—!

"You've been asleep for over an hour, Robbie," Roy piped up, from the couch beside Donna. He grinned at me. "You looked so cute sucking your thumb like that, we didn't have the heart to wake you."

I mustered up a glare. Donna slapped him for me. "Roy!"

Roy grimaced and rubbed his arm. Donna obviously hadn't been holding back much on that slap. "Okay, okay, so the thumb bit wasn't true. But I still wasn't about to wake him."

"Ro-o-oy..." Donna drew out his name warningly.

"What?" the archer protested, throwing up his hands in a mock-defense. "Well, I wasn't! Have you _seen_ the way he looks lately? Besides, Leslie would've killed me." Even I could see that the shudder that followed wasn't feigned. "That doctor can give the Bat a run for his money."

I rolled my eyes and covered up a yawn. "Of course she can. She has to deal with Bruce, remember?"

A new voice piped up from the left side of my bed, on the opposite side of the room from the couch Donna and Roy occupied. "Besides, she takes lessons from _Alfred_." The voice paused a moment. "Or maybe it's the other way round. I've never quite been able to figure that one out."

Neither had I. But I wasn't about to admit it where Tim could hear me. Big brother's prerogative and all that. Of course, now that I knew that Tim was here, I did have free reign to tease him. Which also came under big brother's prerogative. I carefully shifted my body so that I could see him better. "So, Tim, how—"

And that was as far as I got...which was probably just as well. He definitely wouldn't have liked what I'd been about to say.

I was interrupted by the door to my room swinging open wildly. Leslie burst into my room, scrubs disheveled under her medical coat, her hair ruffled and out of place. She'd been running. Her cheeks were flushed, and she was out of breath as if she'd run a mile to get here. But as out of breath as she was, she did seem to relax and breathe easier as soon as she saw me. "Dick! You're here!"

I blinked. _'Oh-kay... That was strange.'_ It was also one way to wake me up in a hurry.

I sat up as best I could and shot Leslie an exasperated look. _'Where else would I be?'_ It was kind of hard for me to be anywhere else. I _had_ been told in no uncertain terms not to move my leg after that bone biopsy on my femur. Not that I was about to. The sharp spike of pain I'd felt when I'd shifted my position on the bed just before my last check-up had been more than enough to dissuade me from trying anything else. It had also been enough to get me to accept some pain meds for the first time today.

Roy, of course, being the bright spark that he is, said it for me. "Um, Doctor Leslie? He _is_ kinda restricted to that bed, ya know."

Leslie shot the couch where he sat a dark look. It was obvious that she didn't have much time or patience right now. "What are you doing here?" she asked brusquely. "I thought Tim—" For whatever reason, she must've thought better of what she was about to say and cut herself off. Visibly calming down, she approached the bed, though she shot another strange look at the couch – and what all _that_ was about, I had no idea. She directly looked at me. "I take it you haven't heard the news, then?"

We looked at each other, stumped. "What news?" Donna piped up.

In answer, Leslie turned on the TV. It didn't matter what channel. They were all running the same story. With the exact same commentary. If I hadn't been a Gothamite for so long, I'd say it was almost freaky. But then again, this _was_ Gotham, where stranger things _had_ happened.

_'—king news, Wayne Memorial Hospital is today a hospital under siege. Reports are coming in that at least four gunmen have taken the hospital lobby hostage, although at this time, we have no confirmation of rumors that there have already been shots fired. The GCPD has ordered SWAT teams to surround the facility. A spokesman for the GCPD is expected to hold a conference in a few minutes. Our reporter on the scene, Summer Gleason, had this t—'_

Leslie flicked it off mid-word, and let a solemn silence fill the room.

Finally, Roy stood, and helped Donna up from the couch. "Well, boys and girls, I guess this is where Donna and I get to go do our stuff."

Tim grinned, but made no move to leave the chair beside my bed. "You've got heads to bash, you mean."

Roy grinned back, as irrepressible as ever. "That too."

I frowned at the kid, knowing all too well what I'd been like at that age when I had the prospect of a little action dangling in front of me. I'd have been out of this room in a shot, bored big brother in the bed or not. "Don't you want to join them, Tim? It might be the last chance at action you'll see for days."

"Nah," he said, leaning back in the chair and making himself comfortable. Personally, I didn't see how he did it. Those chairs were specifically designed to be _un_comfortable. "Someone's got to stay and make sure you keep out of trouble."

"Funny, Tim. Not."

Leslie spoke up finally. She had a strange expression on her face. "Roy, Donna, I think you'd better take the stairs. When word of this finally trickles in to admin, they'll put the hospital into lockdown, and the elevators may be taken offline. Inconvenient if there's an emergency with a patient, I know, but it's standard procedure in situations like this. And believe me, you do _not_ want to be trapped in there for hours."

"Noted," Donna nodded briskly, all business already.

A sudden thought struck me, and I called out, "Wait." There was _no way_ I was letting my team go without some point of contact. Just because I was stuck in this stupid bed didn't mean I wasn't still responsible for them. I propped my upper body up on my elbows, just enough so that I could see them at the door over the bedside railing. "You got a way we can contact you if we need to?"

Half-turning on his way to the door, Roy nodded and held up a cellphone. Even from where I was lying, I could see it was one of the new ones the Suicide Squad were issued a month ago – ones the government _and_ the rest of us superheroes weren't supposed to know about just yet.

I didn't even want to ask how Roy had managed to obtain one. Not even Batman had managed to get his hands on one of those phones yet. And, for the record, I _officially_ hadn't either. (If I was speaking unofficially and off the record, though, the phone looked great and worked even better. Put it this way: I can network. And I was good friends with the engineer behind the phone's design.)

"Yeah, I'm pretty sure we do." Roy flashed a devilish smile. "I'm sure the hospital'll make an exception just this once." They would, too. Those phones didn't show up on the cell networks, civilian or military, and they had no impact on other electronic devices around them. They were perfect for our situation.

"And don't worry," Donna added, a knowing look in her eyes, "we'll make sure its on silent and vibrate-only. No one else will know we've got it." Which was truer than she knew. The stealth capabilities of that phone were...off the charts. There was a reason Robin had been talking about that phone for weeks before it came out. I wondered idly if Tim had recognized what Roy had been holding up.

In any case, I nodded at them, appeased, and lowered myself back down as they walked out the door.

And then, finally, we were alone.

Finally. Maybe now I could get some real answers, and not just about that phone. I had a few more pressing matters I wanted to deal with first. I shot Leslie a measured look. "All right, Leslie. Out with it. What had you tied up all in knots when you came in?"

Beside me, Tim jerked and snorted out a laugh. "Lovely turn of phrase," he said dryly. "Where'd ya pick that one up?"

"From one of the nurses last shift," I answered shortly, "and don't go changing the subject." I turned back to Leslie and gave her a hard look. "You came in here all out of breath like you'd run here from who knows where, and then going by your reaction, you_ didn't_ expect me to be here. Somehow, I think there's more to what the news was saying, and I think you know what it is. Am I right?"

Reluctantly, she nodded. "You're right, as usual. The gunmen? The hospital grapevine says they're _Latino_."

Tim stared at her, not getting the connection. "Yeah...so?"

I sighed, a creeping feeling in my gut telling me that I knew exactly where this was headed. "Turn the news back on for a few minutes, would you Les? I want to see what that conference from the GCPD spokesman is about. Maybe we'll be lucky and they'll have sketches of the gunmen up already." Even as I said the words, I knew it was a remote possibility. I was fairly sure that there hadn't really been enough time since the hospital had been taken hostage for the gunmen's descriptions to be called in, sketches generated, and then distributed enough to appear on the news. But then the odds were even longer on all channels having the exact same commentary at the exact same time, and that had already happened once today.

Leslie did as I'd asked.

Call it freaky or call it fate, but they had the sketches up just as she flicked it on. I'd called the gamble right.

And it was probably a sign of how the day would go that I recognized the sketches immediately. Four men: an Englishman, a smoker, a Texan, and a Latino. All those years of training in facial recognition were paying off in the worst way as the sinking feeling in my gut hit rock bottom. "It's okay, Leslie. You can turn it off, now. I've seen enough."

"What is it, Dick?" Tim asked. Perceptive kid. He knew by my tone that there was something going on.

"My congratulations to the sketch artist," I made myself comment lightly. "I don't know how they did it so fast, but they've got the faces just right." I looked up at Tim grimly. "The gunmen aren't Latinos, Tim – okay, one of them is – but all of them are tied in with ol' Dabbie. And Dabbie, as we all know, apart from working with Joker, gets cocaine from Columbia out into the streets of Gotham...and maybe into Blüdhaven as well, considering he took a gun to my city." I grimaced. "I haven't been able to investigate that connection yet. No offense to the residents of _Bogota_, but he is one major piece of work."

Tim's look of comprehension was swift. "Diablo Simmons."

I nodded grimly. Diablo Simmons. The guy who shot me and became Blüdhaven's resident psychotic in one fell swoop, a man with ties both to the Joker and to Gotham. But that didn't tell me what these guys were doing _here_. I looked over at the other two and said as much. "I thought ol' Dabbie was in the jail or something." At least, that was what the last word from Amy had been a few days ago.

Leslie's expression was bleak. "He's not. He was moved to this hospital's psychiatric ward two days ago, to await a psych evaluation before the trial. If memory serves, he's about three floors above us."

I stared at her, aghast. "He's not. Tell me he's _not_."

She nodded slowly. "I'm afraid he is, Dick. I'm not happy about it either."

Damn. This just kept getting better and better. And now four of his 'colleagues' just _happened_ to take the lobby of the same hospital as he was in hostage. Double damn. Why hadn't I seen this coming? "So these guys are here to pay him a visit, and probably break him out. Can they find out where he is from the lobby?"

Leslie nodded grimly. "Oh yes. Until the hospital goes into a lockdown state, the computers in the lobby have access to all patients' records, so they can tell visitors where the patients' rooms are. Although, Diablo's will be harder to access than most, what with him being in the secure ward." She frowned a moment. "I imagine they'll have it protected by passwords, clearance codes, or something along those lines. It might even be stored in a separate computer than other patients' records. I'm not too sure, to be honest, because I've never _had_ a patient in the secure ward."

Yeah, okay, so his records were protected, but I had a feeling that those four had taken that lobby hostage for a reason, and it wasn't for the scenery. And if they could find out where Diablo was... I paled at the thought. "Um, guys? I hate to ask this, but...isn't there a chance that they'll come after me too? Can they find out where I am from down there?"

Tim frowned, thinking hard. I could practically hear the cogs whirring from here. Finally, he shook his head. "Not...really."

Leslie also shook her head. "They'd have to know where you are first."

I stared at them, uncomprehending. "Huh? Wouldn't it be public record that I'm here? Free press and all that?"

"Not so much as you might think," Leslie replied cryptically. She gave me her full attention. "You probably don't know this, Dick, because, well... you were pretty much out of it when you first came out of the coma..."

I nodded. From what little I remembered, for days afterwards, I hadn't been able to keep my eyes open for longer than a minute or so every couple of hours, even without the drugs I'd been on at the time. Most of what I knew from that entire stretch came from what others had told me.

Except for the tests. I still remembered the tests that they'd put me through. The sleep-deprived EEG had been particularly...brutal. Among other procedures.

"The truth is, Dick," Tim spoke up, "the publicity you generated when you took down Diablo as a civilian was off the charts." He sounded a little awed at that. Or a little peeved. It was hard to tell. "Not only did Blüdhaven have a psychotic gunman on the loose, but a cop then took him down single-handed. An _off-duty Blüdhaven cop_, no less. Suddenly, the BPD looked a lot more competent than usual. It was a PR _bonanza_ for them, and a lot of them wanted to take advantage of it. The fact that said heroic cop then had to fight for his life in hospital was just a side point." He grimaced. "We're just lucky no one's quite managed to connect you and Bruce yet...or if they have, they aren't talking about it. I'm not laying bets on how long _that_ will last, though."

"The press had a field day, as you might imagine," Leslie smoothly took up the tale. "We had a hard time keeping them away from you. Why do you think the hospital was so willing to let you go home a mere two weeks after coming out of your coma? Usual procedure dictates that we wait _at least_ another couple of weeks before releasing a recovering coma patient. You were in no shape _at all_ to be going home, but the Manor was a lot more secure and more private than the hospital ever was...or would ever be. And as it stands, you're only now getting your strength up to normal levels." She rolled her eyes after a moment. "The furor in the press had just started to die down when we had to re-admit you. With our luck, that probably started it all up all over again."

I stared. "I—I had no idea..."

Leslie nodded grimly. "I know. And we worked hard to keep it that way."

"That's the real reason why I got so much time off school," Tim broke in, shifting a little on his seat. "To distract you, so you wouldn't realize what we were doing."

I said nothing, because it _had_ worked. I hadn't realized. I didn't know what to say.

Should I thank them, for their forethought in sparing me from a media circus I hadn't even known about? Probably. I _was_ grateful, I really was. I disliked the press as much as Bruce did – okay, that was a lie. Bruce only tolerated them as a necessary evil – they advertised his company, and they advertised his chosen social persona, but that was as far as it went for him. Me, I had even less use for them – I'd even go as far as to say that I _hated_ dealing with the press. Long story. Definitely one for another day. Like 'never'.

And yet... Call it pride or call it ego, but I didn't want to admit that I _hadn't_ known. Even if I'd kinda had plenty of other things on my mind, I'd also definitely had enough idle time on my hands to pick up on_ something_...and yet I hadn't. Had my skills slipped that far? Had the coma changed me that much?

I pushed the troubling thoughts away for another time and refocused on the conversation, just in time to catch Tim's next words.

"Well, that, and I couldn't concentrate anyway." He shrugged. "Dad understood, in the end." Then he rolled his eyes. "It just meant I had tons of homework to do when you were sleeping or when someone else was with you."

I just nodded, numbly, and pulled myself together enough to send Tim an appreciative look. I well remembered the amount of homework that private schools could assign when you started missing classes.

"And, when we had to re-admit you, Bruce pulled a few strings," Leslie added. "Even now, Dick, you're in a restricted area of the hospital. There's a reason why you keep seeing the same nurses over and over, and there're no patients around you or wandering the halls. We had to do it this way so we could keep tabs on who gets access to you."

_'Oh.'_ Truth be told, I had kind of wondered why it was so quiet... Then I made the obvious connection. "Let me guess. That's why Tim stayed when Roy and Donna left. So he would know who's around me."

"In part." Then he grinned. "But I was also kinda hoping to share your lunch."

Ah, I remembered those days, when the appeal of chasing bad guys came in a close second to the appeal of food. Even _hospital_ food. The joys of growth spurts. "Thief," I managed to grouse good-naturedly. "Lean on your own breakfast." Which was another phrase I'd picked up from one of the nurses. I'd learned some interesting things in this hospital.

Tim shrugged. "Doesn't matter now anyway. I kinda doubt they'll be bringing lunch around with gunmen at large."

Ah, yes. _'Thanks for the reminder. Not.'_ Like I could have forgotten about _that_, even if I hadn't just been handed a bombshell or two. Which was why I was more than happy to accept the change of subject. I shot Leslie an appraising look. "So, getting back to the original topic, can the gunmen access my records from the lobby's computers, or not?"

Leslie shifted her weight and looked at me steadily. "Not really."

_'Lovely. Another vague answer.'_ I rolled my eyes, a growing feeling in the back of my mind saying that we didn't have time for word games. "Either it is or isn't, Leslie. Which is it?"

"Yes, they can," she finally admitted. "But they'd have to work hard to access your details. _Really_ hard. It took some fast talking, but that information is listed under restricted acc—"

"But it _is_ there," I said firmly.

"Yes," she sighed finally. "It's there. But, and this is a _big_ but, they'd have to know to go looking in the first place, and without the proper passwords and clearance, they'd have to hack into the system to find it." She paused a moment. "In fact, I imagine they'd need to use similar methods to find the information as they would to find Diablo's...but slightly different, since your records wouldn't be stored in the same area of the system, because you're not in the secure ward."

I stared at the wall without seeing it for a long moment. "But if they know enough about Gotham and Blüdhaven to know that Diablo's _here_ when hardly anyone else does," I asked quietly, "why wouldn't it also stand to reason that they'd know I'm here as well?"

Tim looked at me askance. "What are you getting at, Dick? You think we're at risk, _here?_"

I blew out a breath and remained silent for a moment. How on earth could I explain what I was feeling without sounding like a complete and utter lunatic? I had no basis for my feelings. Just my gut and instinct – never mind that the two made potent combination that had never failed me in the past. In the end, I shook my head and shrugged. "I don't _know_ what I'm getting at, Tim. But I'd rather not find out, if you get my drift."

He nodded, understanding me immediately. Robin knew how accurate I usually was. "You think we should change rooms." He said it like a statement, not a question, I noticed. Smart kid.

I nodded in answer anyway. "Or something. I just...I'd rather not be here, if they come looking."

Leslie, however, didn't have the benefit of Robin's experience. "Listen to yourself, though, Dick," she objected, crossing her arms over her chest. "Listen to what you're saying. '_If_ they come looking.' You're basing this on mere speculation. I'm _not_ putting your health at risk based on some..._conjecture_ that you're pulling out of thin air. I need something more real than that." She blew out a hard breath. "And besides, you _are_ stuck in that bed for the foreseeable future. Exactly where do you think you're going?"

Outwardly I remained calm, but inwardly I winced. Okay, so I _had_ forgotten for the moment about the whole bed-ridden bit. But that could be overcome – I knew that from experience. I waved my right hand dismissively. "Let's put aside the whole bed thing for a moment."

"But—"

Inwardly I rolled my eyes. "Just listen to me, okay Leslie?" I retorted firmly, feeling a little testy over having to explain myself, to Leslie of all people. It didn't help that it meant trying to put my gut-feelings and instincts into words – a dicey proposition at best. "There are men in this hospital with guns who obviously have a point to prove. I just don't think they'll be very happy when they find out that the same guy who took out their friend out is also here at the hospital _and_ vulnerable. Because knowing police procedures like I do, Diablo's position in this hospital is going to be as protected as mine is, or was. It doesn't take much of a stretch of the imagination to see that if they can hack into the system enough to find ol' Dabbie's position, then they can also find mine in the process." I sucked in as deep a breath as I could, and shot for gold. "And if I was them, and I knew where the cop who'd taken down their friend was, I'd come here in a shot and take me out to make a point that cops shouldn't try to be heroes. Am I making sense yet?"

She shook her head slowly and frowned. "Still not quite doing it, Dick."

I blew out a frustrated breath and clenched my good hand into fist. How much more explicit did I have to _get_ with her? "Then how about you just _listen to me_, Leslie? Please? Just this once? It's like...at the risk of sounding cliché, I've got a really _bad_ feeling about this."

Her face softened instantly, no doubt recalling all the long and detailed conversations we'd had about my 'bad feelings' over the years. "How bad?"

I grimaced. _'She just _had_ to ask, didn't she?'_ "Like I've got a friend in trouble and I can't speak to warn anyone, _that_ kind of bad feeling," I answered grimly, as I locked gazes with my doctor. I didn't look away – that way, I could safely ignore the sharp look Tim was giving me. Okay, it was a cruel card to play, especially with Leslie, but it'd get the point across. We both knew _exactly_ what I was talking about. "I... Just..._humor_ me, all right? Let me move out of here, just for a couple of minutes, and if nothing happens, then it's no-harm-no-foul, okay?"

Leslie closed her eyes in something that looked a lot like resignation. "I can't go against that kind of argument. Not with you." She sighed heavily and nodded. "Okay. It's against my better judgment, but I'll do it."

_'Oh-kay...'_ It was that easy? All I had to do was bring up the past and she capitulated, just like that? Where was the catch?

As it turned out, I wasn't long in finding out.

"But_ if_ we do this," Leslie continued, "we have to do this _right_. That means we find something to immobilize your leg with before you can even _think_ about getting out of that bed. And you'll have to promise me that you'll put absolutely no weight _at all_ on that leg. I'm not having you breaking your femur on me, because if you do, I might just break your neck for you."

"But—"

"No buts, Dick. Either we do this my way, or not at all. Tim, help your brother find some clothes to get into that'll be warmer than that gown. I'll be back in a minute with something we can use for his leg." And, just like that, she bustled out of the room like a drill sergeant on steroids.

"Man," Tim let out a low whistle when she was gone, "am I glad she's on_ our_ side."

"Amen to that, little brother," I agreed fervently as I propped myself up on my elbows. "Now, how about you help me get this show on the road, eh?"

Tim turned to me and frowned, a pensive look on his face. "Are you_ sure_ you're up to this? You really don't look all that great, you know."

I rolled my eyes at him. "Way to make a guy feel good, Tim," I groused. "You really need to work on those social skills of yours. Now find me some pants or something, would you? I am _not_ walking around the hospital with a permanent air-vent in the back."

Tim, good kid that he was, obediently hopped up from his chair and started rooting through the bedside night table where Alfred had put my clothing. But that didn't mean that he had the grace to do it quietly. "But Cass is always after me to be more honest with people," he retorted, his voice _dripping_ innocence.

"There's honesty and there's _honesty_, Tim. And that was a poor case of the latter," I shot back, not amused in the least.

"Sheesh, now who's grouchy in his old age?" I heard Tim grumble into the depths of the clothes.

I rolled my eyes again. How hard could it be to find a pair of pants? Must be really hard, going by how long it was taking him. "You found those pants yet, Tim?"

"Yep," Tim replied, popping back up into view with two articles of clothing in his hands. "I found a pair of shorts, and a pair of sweat pants, both navy. In fact, most of your clothing is black or some kinda shade of blue. Are you trying to say something here?" he grinned.

"Hey!" I retorted hotly. "At least it's not all black!" Like a certain someone I knew, who practically refused to wear anything else. "Toss me the sweats, would you?" At least the pants would be a better defense than the shorts against the cool air-conditioning...and the way my blood always seemed to run a little thinner when I was injured.

He threw the pants at me, all rolled up in a ball, and I caught them neatly in one hand out of the air. Reflexes were looking just fine here, thank you very much. I placed them tidily beside me on the bed, then contemplated for a moment how I was going to get myself upright so I could start on the business of getting dressed with one hand still in splints. By this point, I was so used to my broken left hand that I tended to forget about it until I needed to use it.

Finally I gave a mental shrug. _'Nothing for it but to just try it.'_ I levered myself up onto my elbows, carefully shifted my weight onto my right hip and elbow, then pushed myself up onto my good hand. I made it about halfway up before I had to stop, breathing heavily and in pain from my ribs. I felt a wave of dizziness as my vision tunneled and the room swirled. I clenched my eyes shut and tried hard to think of anything other than my churning stomach.

Tim touched my shoulder gently. "You okay?"

The way I was feeling, I dared not even try to nod. "Yeah," I breathed. "Just...dizzy. Moved too fast." Understatement of the year. I opened my eyes enough to squint at him and tried a watery smile – a smile I wouldn't normally use because it made me look vulnerable, but this was Tim so it didn't matter. "Been lying down too long, I guess."

He simply nodded wordlessly and slung his arm around my gown-clad shoulders, steadying me and giving me something to lean against. "Whenever you're ready," he offered quietly.

Eventually the last of the dizziness and nauseating pain receded into the background and I nodded my consent to Tim. "I'm good."

"Right." His tone, I noted absently, didn't indicate whether he actually agreed with my assessment of my condition. "Let's try it again, okay?"

Okay, so it did go a lot smoother, and a lot faster, with Tim there to pull me up as I pushed. Good teamwork and all that. Not that I was about to admit it. I still had some pride and dignity left.

Which was pretty much all that kept me upright and breathing when Leslie burst back into the room with just as much energy as she'd left it with. This time, though, she had some kind of black metal and strap contraption in one hand, and a crutch in the other. I eyed the contraption warily. It didn't look very attractive, or very inviting.

Being the woman that she was, Leslie instantly took charge of the situation with a few barked orders. She put the crutch aside, placed the contraption-thingy on the bed beside my leg and fussed over both. I concentrated on keeping my arm locked so I'd stay up on my own strength, while Tim went around the other side to find the controls to raise the head of the bed. I supposed they wanted to make it easier for me to stay upright while they did...whatever it was they wanted to do with _that thing_ and my leg. It was probably some sort of brace, judging by Leslie's earlier comments.

Still, I didn't like how grateful I was when Tim got the head of the bed high enough that I could release my locked arm and lean back into it. It meant my physical condition had slipped even further than I'd feared. I _really_ needed to get out of here and do some exercise, to rebuild my level of fitness.

Those thoughts were enough to keep me watching silently while Leslie and Tim gloved up – which was just strange. Since when did they need latex _gloves_ to put on a brace? And then they pulled the blankets down to my ankles. It was, coincidentally, the first time I'd seen my bad leg since I'd been admitted – I'd been flat on my back ever since or I'd had the blankets pulled up. And I must admit, I certainly wasn't expecting it to be as red or as swollen as _that_, even with the bandage over the biopsy site. If ever I'd doubted the 'bone infection' diagnosis...well, I certainly wasn't now.

Okay, so maybe staying in hospital to get this infection thing cleared up wasn't such a bad idea.

It still didn't mean I had to like it.

Leslie placed the black brace-thing parallel to my leg, adjusted the straps, and then looked up me. "Okay, Dick, we're going to use this to brace your leg. It'll hopefully immobilize the bone and provide enough support that we can get you mobile. Now, when did you last take some painkillers?"

I looked at her blankly. So, I was right. It was a brace. But what did painkillers have to do with _that?_ "Um...last vital-check? Why?"

"Remember at the Manor, just before I admitted you? I warned you that getting ready was going to hurt a lot?" She waited for my nod, and then added quietly, "It's a similar thing, Dick. I have to move your leg and do some bending to get this thing in place. This isn't going to be pleasant."

So what was a little more pain? Besides, I sorta had the feeling we'd wasted enough time as it was. And I wanted to be as lucid as possible in case I was right and something _did_ happen. I shook my head. "Just do what you have to do, Les. I've got enough in my system."

She gave me a level look. "As long as you're sure."

I nodded. "I am."

And—oh, she was right. It wasn't pleasant. I bit my lip to keep quiet and retreated quickly inside myself. _'Focus, Grayson.'_ I narrowed my concentration to my breathing, meditating only on that. _'Focus through the pain.'_ In. Out. Exhale. Inhale. _'You can do this.'_ In. Out. Exhale. Inhale.

_'Damn, but this hurts.'_

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

**  
**In.

**  
**Out.

**  
**_'Oh sh—'_

**  
**In.

**  
**  
"...Dick?"

I slowly released the breath I'd been holding and eased open eyes I'd closed at some point. Both Leslie and Tim were staring at me narrowly, making me wonder for a fleeting second if I had something wrong with my face. It was probably all the cooling sweat I could feel on my forehead. I dredged up a weak smile for them. "Well, that was nice," I offered gamely.

If _that_ was any indication, standing – let alone _walking_ – was gonna be so much fun.

Leslie grimaced. "'Nice' isn't the word I'd use," was all she said, before she turned away.

I rolled my eyes. It wasn't the word I'd normally use either, but I wasn't exactly trying to be a thesaurus here. Or one of my high-school English teachers. "Can we just get out of here?" I asked, not caring too much how testy I sounded.

Leslie sighed heavily. "Before we do anything more, you're taking this." She pulled a syringe out of nowhere and held it out to me, her thumb resting lightly on the plunger. Devious doctors and their sleight of hand. She was as bad as Alfred.

I stared at her suspiciously. Syringes and me didn't get along as a general rule. "What is it?"

"Slow release morphine. I was afraid you might need it. And after seeing what it took out of you just to put that brace in place, I can see that I was right. It won't make you drowsy or knock you out. It'll just take the edge off." She put her hand closer, almost right under my nose. "Take it, Dick. Or this ends now and we go nowhere." There was enough steel in her voice that I didn't doubt her. She usually talked like that – in my presence, at least – to Bruce, and only when he was being particularly stubborn and Batty.

I submitted to the injection. I didn't even grimace or pull any of my usual tricks as it went into my hip. Even I knew better than to argue with Leslie when she was in one of these moods.

Leslie regarded me critically for a long moment when she was done and the syringe disposed of, then sighed and nodded to herself, as if she'd proved something to herself. Darned if I knew what it was, though. All she said, as firmly as ever, was, "Okay. Let's do this."

_'All right!'_ That, I could handle. We'd wasted enough time as it was. Time to get this show on the road, and other clichés like that.

I sat up a little more, ignoring the twinge in my ribs when I did so. For one thing, compared to my leg, it really was nothing. And for another, well, I _was_ now on 'the good stuff', as Leslie called it. Morphine, even slow release, was nothing to be sneezed at. Yet I was still feeling remarkably lucid, despite the warmth I could feel slowly spreading through my body.

On the other hand, getting me dressed was really one big pain.

Figuratively_ and_ literally speaking.

It gave me a whole new appreciation for what Barbara must go through every morning just to get dressed. At least I had one leg that still worked. Although, my problem probably was that I still had feeling down south.

Oh yeah, plenty of feeling there, thank you.

Just putting the pants on meant standing with Tim bracing me from behind while Leslie put my feet in and pulled them over the brace and up to my waist. Thank goodness I had the underwear part already covered. I spent the whole time studiously avoiding looking down. I had no desire to see anyone _there_. Not that the standing bit was very pleasant. All that blood rushing downwards, to and from my bad leg and _that_ biopsy site. To say it was 'throbbing' was an understatement, especially when I accidentally shifted my weight the wrong way. Put it this way: I couldn't even spare the breath to swear in my own thoughts.

Then there was the top half. For which, thankfully, they let me back on the bed again. I was never so grateful to sit down. This bit was, admittedly, the easiest part of the process. Leslie moved around the bed to untie the back of the gown. It made for unusual sensations whenever her latex-covered fingers brushed against my skin. Several times I had to hold myself back from shuddering. My back's always been one of the most sensitive parts of my body, even though my right leg was currently vying for the top spot. When Leslie was done, Tim tossed me a t-shirt and fleece top, rolled up together into a ball, that he'd found in my belongings while Leslie was busy. Once again, I caught them neatly with one hand – really, it was hard to miss something _that_ large headed my way – and laid them beside me, then got busy pulling the gown down and off as soon as Leslie moved away.

I'd tugged the shapeless gown down as far as my elbows when Leslie suddenly stopped me with a gloved hand to my shoulder. I looked up curiously. "Les? What is it?"

Her hand dropped. "I just...sorry, Dick. It was nothing."

I shrugged and continued pulling off the gown, saying nothing, even though I was pretty sure I knew what had surprised my usually unflappable doctor. This morning, during the vitals check, I'd_ finally_ had the patch removed over the bullet wound on my chest, the one that would've given me a lung wound a'la Diablo, but was at long last starting to fade into scar-like obscurity. And not a moment too soon. One more reminder dealt with and removed, thank-you very much. Still, it'd probably just caught Leslie off-guard to see it out in the open instead of covered up under a tidy layer of gauze.

There. Gown off. Now for the real clothing. Maybe then, I might feel like an actual human being again.

T-Shirt first. _'Huh, would you look at that?'_ It was a gray BPD shirt. There was something to be said for irony here: Tim had managed to select the exact same t-shirt I'd worn when I'd been admitted. Surprisingly not too difficult to get on – obviously the morphine was helping. Those three broken ribs courtesy of Diablo were taking their sweet time to heal, on top of everything else. (Almost made me wish I'd gotten a few more jabs into Diablo when I'd had the chance.) Next, the fleece top. Actually, it was a fleece BPD jacket with a hood. _'And PD merchandising strikes again.'_ Much easier to get on than the t-shirt. Just had to put my arms in, watch out for the splint over my broken hand, get Tim to zip it up, and I was _done_. Finally.

Then Leslie got me standing again. This time, I was prepared for the pain, knew full well it was coming, so it didn't throw me quite as much. Which was probably like saying that taking a second pile-driver punch to the gut from Bane was easy, because you knew that it was gonna hurt just as much as the first one did and there was nothing you could do about it but stand there and take it.

Anyway.

So. There I was. Standing. Again. Leaning with my back against Tim's chest – and since when did he get to be so strong? – but standing regardless. On Leslie's orders, Tim moved around to my left side and slung my left arm around his shoulders. I winced as my broken left hand hit his side, but said nothing. I was pretty sure we had more important matters to handle than where and how much I hurt.

I didn't expect one of those matters to be Leslie shoving the crutch she'd brought in at me. Although, in hindsight, I should have. I couldn't exactly bear weight on my bad leg, and I had no desire to hop my way through the hospital corridors. I knew I needed some support other than Tim, no matter how obliging he was being. Gotta love little brothers. Always good for some thing, even if it was as a leaning post.

I looked at Leslie. I looked at the crutch. And sighed. "All right, all right. I give. Where does it go?"

"Under your right arm. Hold on to it with your hand, and do not, under _any_ circumstances, let go." She fixed me with a stern look. "You hear me, Dick? You let go of this, and there _will_ be hell to pay."

I nodded faintly, took the crutch, and put it where she said. I wasn't too surprised that it fit, even though I wasn't exactly standard height and I knew from experience that crutches weren't one-size-fits-all. This was Leslie I was dealing with, after all. Only when I was done did I fix her with a knowing look. "Would that threat have anything to do with why you made sure I'm all covered up?" I asked with forced lightness. "And why you and Tim gloved up the moment you had to touch me?"

Silence descended.

Then Tim spoke. "Told you."

And, obviously, there was some prior conversation that I'd missed out on here.

"Dick. Yes, and yes. And Tim, shut up," my doctor replied shortly. Ah, I had her rattled. _'Oh, goody.'_ "To cut a long story short," she added, "we think the infection you've got might have been caused by bacteria that are transmitted through skin contact. So even though I'm willing to go along with this hare-brained scheme of yours, you be _very_ careful where and what you touch, okay? I don't want to have to quarantine the entire floor instead of just your room."

I rolled my eyes and suggested the obvious solution. "So don't. Glove my hand instead. Simple."

Tim grinned. "Score one for the detective!" he crowed.

Now it was Leslie's turn to roll her eyes. "Tim... Shut. Up."

"Shutting up," he repeated, still grinning.

I eyed my little brother warily as Leslie pulled out a glove from somewhere – sleight of hand, anyone? – and began putting it on my right hand. "Obviously," I commented, "the lack of food hasn't hurt your blood sugar any."

"Are you kidding?" he shot back, his body faintly vibrating under my arm. I had the sense he'd be bouncing from foot to foot if it wasn't for Bat-control and the fact that I was leaning on him. "I'm running on adrenaline here."

Leslie pulled the latex glove on with a _snap_. I wriggled my fingers inside it, suddenly reminded of all the reasons why I'd never truly enjoyed wearing them. True, they were a necessary evil when it came to my day and my night jobs, especially in terms of collecting evidence, but give me air-on-skin any day. A glare from Leslie, and I hastily replaced my hand on the crutch support.

Then, we set out for the door. Finally.

And, yeah, it sounded so much nicer and neater when I said it in my head like that. The reality was a lot more...awkward. Ungraceful. It took me a while to adjust to the...rhythm of it, of knowing when to move the crutch and coordinating my lower body along with it and Tim's steps. Actually, I was pretty sure that there was no rhythm. There was just...movement, non-movement, and hell.

Mostly hell.

But as long as I put no weight _at all_ on my bad leg, it wasn't so bad. Like facing down a disappointed Alfred wasn't bad. Or going ten rounds with Bane. Endurable. What didn't kill me made me stronger.

Yeah.

And thus it was that we made our way to the door. Okay, so I wasn't about to win awards any time soon for grace, style, or speed. But I was vertical and I was _walking_ – all right, maybe it was more like stumbling – albeit with help. A lot of help. That was still progress in my book.

We halted that "progress" at the door. We'd reached the proverbial crossroads.

Tim stared both ways down the corridor, a faintly lost look on his face. "Okay...where to now?"

Leslie pointed to the left. "Elevators are that way. Only access to the floor. And right is pretty much a dead-end."

Carefully shifting my weight to lean a little more on the crutch, I leaned out to see if either corridor appealed. Nope. Both were...rather unremarkable, to say the least. Typical hospital hallways, filled with taupe, the occasional uncomfortable chair, and unending doorways. And it was so..._quiet_. It made me distinctly uneasy. "How much is 'pretty much'?" I prompted. "What's down there on the right?"

Leslie sighed and blew a tuft of hair out of her face. Exasperation at me, no doubt. "Nurses' station, a few more rooms, unoccupied of course. Turn the corner, and there's a patient's lounge. But that's it. End of the hall."

"And to the left?"

"More unoccupied rooms, a visitors' lounge, and the elevators around another corner. We've basically got the whole wing to ourselves."

Nurses' station to the right? But...? I looked and listened again to make sure. _'Yep. Definitely empty.'_ "Speaking of nurses," I prompted, "where on earth are they?"

"I gave them a break while I got the brace and crutch," Leslie replied quickly, not looking at me...or Tim. "Explained the situation downstairs and told them all to go home, via the stairs and the back entrance. Just in case you're right. I don't want any unnecessary casualties caught up in whatever might happen."

I nodded, knowing better than to say anything. I knew Leslie's opinion of what I did at night, and of the danger involved. I also had a fair idea how much it must have cost her to admit that she believed me enough to accept that some kind of danger might enter her well-ordered life by our presence – by _my_ presence. No need to say something and make us all aware of it, thereby rubbing her nose in it. "So...directions," I finally said casually, as though the whole discussion about the nurses hadn't happened.

"Yeah,_ directions_," Tim prodded, a hint of impatience in his voice. "Which way?"

Ah, what a question.

I chewed my lip for a moment as I thought. My police training said to go right. Down the hall to the end, to the patient's lounge. Get the wall at my back to stave off an attack from that direction, and make my stand there. Problem was, that kind of training was required some kind of firearm in my hands – which I definitely didn't have and had absolutely no plans on obtaining. That type of training, to reflexively reach for a gun and make a stand, was something I was trying hard not to think about. It would mean we'd be trapped down there if – when – they came, because it was almost guaranteed that these four intruders _would_ have guns.

Besides, I didn't know about the others, but I tended to have this pathological avoidance thing going about not being trapped.

Or...we could go left. Find a room to hide in, and wait. If they came, when they came, they'd pass us by, and we could either go for the elevators and make good our escape, or go back and try to take them out. Me, I favored the 'taking-them-out' option, but I'd be willing to see how it played out when we got there.

Not too hard a choice to make after all.

"Left," I decided. "We go left." Now, how far left...? I made this next decision quickly and instinctively – the best way. "I think we should try for that lounge Leslie mentioned, and wait there. If that doesn't work, we can always duck into one of those empty rooms."

And so we set off for the lounge, Leslie leading the way and Tim and I shuffling along after her. After a while I got the hang of it, of leaning on Tim and using the stupid crutch, and we picked up speed. A little speed. It still wasn't as fast as a normal walk, but it was better than a stumbling shuffle. Better than nothing.

And the entire time, I had this little clock ticking down the seconds at the back of my mind. Like the timer on a bomb. Ticking down to...something. I didn't want to know to _what_, even if I had the feeling I was going to find out the hard way. Just going by experience, there. I never seemed to do things the easy way. Life always had a way of tripping me up. There was a saying about that I'd read or heard somewhere once: "Education is what you read in the fine print. The experience is what you get when you don't." Me, my life was full of the experience part. I never seemed to get to the 'fine print' bit.

My sole consolation was that we did, indeed, make it to the visitors' lounge in time. So the clock in the back of my mind obviously wasn't in reference to _that_. But it was still ticking down.

Tim and I hung back a little as Leslie opened the door. She held it open for us and we shuffled in.

Leslie wasn't kidding when she said the room was a lounge. The walls were done in very pale blue, the floor was laminated wood flooring, and there was a pale yellow leather lounge suite around a large wide-screen TV and sound system against the far wall. It was set-up with a few of the latest game systems. Beside the TV was a cabinet full of games for both systems. Definitely no money spared there. Behind the lounge suite was a scattering of board games and jigsaws, some of them still half set-up. All in all, quite a refreshing change from the unrelenting vistas of taupe walls and floors. Lian would've loved it. Tim and I would have too, in other circumstances. Too bad we weren't in here to relax.

Reaching out, Leslie flicked the lights, and the room plunged into dimness. Not so dark that we couldn't see each other, but dark enough for our purposes. If anyone came into the room from the brightly lit corridor, it would take a moment for their eyes to adjust to the change in light. And that moment would be all anyone with half-way decent training – like me and Tim – would need to take the advantage and run with it.

In theory, anyway. I doubted it would work in practice. Leslie was a doctor and had her Hippocratic Oath to contend with. 'First do no harm' and all that. Me, I was a walking – okay, leaning – poster boy for why Blüdhaven was a nasty place for cops to work. Tim...well, Tim was my leaning post and he would hardly leave me in the lurch to take action himself. Enough said.

And, true to form, Tim knew exactly what was on my mind. He turned enough so he could still hold me up while meeting my eyes. "We won't be able to confront anyone head on, will we?" he asked softly.

I managed a shrug. "There's more than one way to skin a cat, Timbo," I whispered back. "But at the moment, we'll just have to wait and see what happens, won't we?" The whole waiting-and-seeing bit was, really, the entire _point_ of doing this. Or had they all forgotten that? Although to be fair, it _had_ taken us long enough to get to this point that it might have slipped their minds. It certainly hadn't slipped from mine. It was sitting in my skull right next to that damnable clock ticking away in my thoughts, slowly getting louder and louder with each passing second.

Have I mentioned that the ticking was starting to drive me a little nuts?

Tim shook his head, obviously still not quite convinced that I knew what I was doing, leading us all here. That didn't surprise me. I wasn't fully convinced myself. "Are you sure about this?" he asked softly, obviously trying to pitch his voice so Leslie wouldn't overhear his moment of doubt.

"It's a little late for that now, isn't it, _Timmy?_" I whispered back. We were already outside my room, down the hall, in the dark, waiting for people who might not show up. Kind of a bit late to be a doubting Thomas if you asked me. Besides, Tim thought better on his feet when I got him a little tense.

_'Right on cue.'_ I suppressed my smirk when Tim glared at me. "You know," he grumbled, "I think I prefer Timbo to—"

"_Shhh!_" I hissed, quickly hushing Tim as my sharp ears caught the sound of the elevator at the end of the hall dinging as it stopped on our floor. The small sound echoed throughout the hallway. That...wasn't good. _Couldn't_ be good.

Whoever was coming had used the elevator instead of the stairs...which meant that they weren't thinking logistically, weren't aware that the elevators would be taken offline when the hospital went into lockdown. Just like Diablo hadn't been thinking ahead when I'd encountered him in Blüdhaven about three weeks ago. His 'colleagues' weren't likely to be any different, for all that they'd managed to take an entire hospital hostage. Even worse, Donna and Roy _were_ aware of the elevator situation. They _would_ have taken the stairs back up to us if they'd survived whatever was down in the lobby. Which could only mean...that I had to now consider them compromised and unavailable. _'Damn.'_

Ten to one, 'whoever it was' coming up in the elevator would turn out to be the gunmen from the lobby – or at least some of them.

I so hated it when I was proven right like this.

And with every passing second, the clock in my head ticked down closer to zero.

* * *

**

* * *

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**  
**_**Next up/Teaser:**_ What happens when that clock strikes zero...


	5. Tick Tock

_**Summary:**_ The clock ticks. Time is running out._**  
Time:**_ Picks up right where the last chapter left off. And, once again, they seem to take an awfully long time talking before they get moving. But I make up for it in the end...promise. :-)_**  
Notes:**_ This "little" arc just keeps getting longer, and longer. I decided to break this chapter in half, into slightly more "manageable" chunks. Not only will it be easier for me to write and thus post, it'll be easier for you to read. Not so much to hit you with, if you get my drift. Plus you all get the next bit quicker! Bonuses all round. That said, a lot still happens in these two chapters, so stay tuned!

_**PS:**_ Dick is sick and getting sicker. His thoughts do not necessarily represent the opinion of the author. Just so you know.

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* * *

**CALL OF DUTY  
Obstacle Course**

_**5. Tick Tock**_

* * *

_"Shhh!" I hissed, quickly hushing Tim as my sharp ears caught the sound of the elevator at the end of the hall dinging as it stopped on our floor. The small sound echoed throughout the hallway. That...wasn't good. Couldn't be good._

_Whoever was coming had used the elevator instead of the stairs...which meant that they weren't thinking logistically, weren't aware that the elevators would be taken offline when the hospital went into lockdown. Just like Diablo hadn't been thinking ahead when I'd encountered him in Blüdhaven about three weeks ago. His 'colleagues' weren't likely to be any different, for all that they'd managed to take an entire hospital hostage. Even worse, Donna and Roy were aware of the elevator situation. They would have taken the stairs back up to us if they'd survived whatever was down in the lobby. This could only mean...that I had to now consider them compromised and unavailable. 'Damn.'_

_Ten to one, 'whoever it was' coming up in the elevator would turn out to be the gunmen from the lobby – or at least some of them._

_I so hated it when I was proven right like this._

_And with every passing second, the clock in my head ticked down closer to zero._

* * *

I was fairly sure that, somewhere in my brain, I had a plan to deal with this situation. Or at least the beginnings of a plan. And if I didn't have one now, I'd have one reasonably quickly.

Contrary to popular opinion – that is, contrary to what Roy and Tim will tell you – I'm not a fussy person. In most situations, I was more than happy to 'go with the flow', as they say, and wait and see how a particular situation would turn out before I tried to redirect it to something more to my liking. Because I believed in free will, free choice, free speech, and all the other freedoms – and mainly because most of the time it was simply too much work than it was worth. Unlike other people I could name – namely, tall, dark, and scary – I did _not_ try to control everything around me.

Not all the time, anyway.

There were other times, however, that 'going with the flow' could get you killed, or at least seriously maimed. And while I preferred to see the glass as 'half full,' I was at least enough of a realist to accept that one had to expect bad times. And prepare oneself accordingly.

I was also more than a little confident that this was going to be 'one of those times' where going with the flow would be a very bad idea. I needed to be a little more proactive about this whole thing, sooner rather than later.

On the other hand, I wasn't exactly batting a hundred. The current extent of my preparation for such pre-emptive action had consisted of getting myself a crutch, a brace on my leg, and moving out of hospital room 426 into this visitor's lounge. I wasn't quite sure what I was going to come up with, but it was going to be good. (It had better be good.) I was sure of at least that much.

Hope springs eternal, and all that.

In the meantime, while my trusty subconscious stewed on the problem and tried to come up with something useful, I had to wait. And hide. Not my two most favorite occupations.

Waiting was never pleasant. It had all the connotations of punishments delayed, time wasted, and so many other useless things that I couldn't count. Or could count, just couldn't be bothered actually doing it. And yes, I was fully aware of the difference, and no, I wasn't about to do anything about it. Simply put, I hated waiting, particularly when I had other, more important things on my mind.

Because I also didn't like hiding... in dim darkness... behind the door to a visitor's lounge, in a hospital I didn't really want to be in, with one leg in a brace, balancing my weight between a crutch I hadn't asked for, standing next to my little brother who was masquerading as a leaning post...while waiting for two gunmen to approach who were apparently gunning for my hide. And the entire time, I was rather uncomfortably aware of the sensation of a ticking clock in my head, an awareness that we were running out of time. So was I having fun? If I was, this was one definition of 'fun' I had obviously missed out on.

See, one of my many problems with hiding behind said door was that the door had a narrow glass panel – narrow as in it was about the width of my hand and embedded with a wire mesh (Gotham being Gotham), but a glass panel nevertheless. I really hoped it was as thick and reinforced as it looked. Because glass was still glass, and it meant that "they" would be able to look in as much as we could look out.

The proverbial double-edged sword.

I pulled back into the shadows behind the door, having absolutely no desire to be seen before I needed to be. Especially since I was ninety-nine point nine percent certain that it was _me_ the two gunmen were after. Diablo, after all, was a few floors above us, and there was no access point to that floor from this level, except from the elevators, but I was already fairly certain that the gunmen had left the elevators and...yeah. Shutting up now.

On the other hand, there was the infinitesimal chance that this was all a fever-based delusion and I was currently hallucinating the whole thing. '_Yeah, right. And Batman really dresses in purple, dances to music, and wears a tutu.'_

And the reality was that while I doubted I would be seen, as the lounge we were in was darker than the outside corridor, I didn't want to run the risk. There was, of course, the fact that this particular room was the only room in the entire corridor that was darkened, but I was hoping that wouldn't strike anyone as unusual until they found out that my room was lacking one occupant.

Another reason to not like hiding and waiting like this was because it reminded me too much of the endless stakeouts of my youth. Not a good experience for a hyperactive youth, to which Batman could also attest. (And had. Numerous times.) I did – eventually – learn to do them, but it wasn't exactly a pleasant journey. For either of us. The fact that I would submit myself to one now as Officer Grayson or as Nightwing was a testament to that training – but it didn't mean I had to like it. It was easier as a cop, because then I usually could afford to move a little more. Nightwing, though, had to be still on stakeouts. Well, not _perfectly_ still. Muscle twitching could be so much fun, if you did it right. I'd rather be moving, period, but I'd learnt to take what I could get.

Speaking of learning; that was another reason why I didn't like waiting. It tended to make the mind wander – mine did, at least. And I'd learned over the years that I tended to think about some pretty crazy things. I thought about things that other twenty-three year-olds probably wouldn't be thinking about in a million years. Offshoot of the night job, I suspected, and the fairly strict control I had to keep over certain aspects of myself during the day. It was only when I was alone or around family that I could let it go, and be myself. Which led to some fairly interesting thought patterns. Where _would_ my mind go if I let it?

―And it went right back to the corridor outside the room. I was finally seeing some movement beyond the glass.

It was more luck than anything that had me closer to the door than Tim. It gave me a better angle to see out the glass panel and down the corridor in the direction of the elevators. It was that, more than anything, that allowed me to see them first...and sent the first shiver of apprehension down my spine. (Or maybe it was a shiver of something else entirely. I was feeling a little cold by this stage, even with the sweats and hooded fleece on.)

Remember those sketches we'd seen on the news earlier this morning? They were so accurate, it was almost spooky. And I _knew_ how hard that was to achieve even with hours up your sleeve...and the GCPD had had mere minutes. _'What on earth is going on here?'_

There was no way I could mistake them.

Taking point was Michael Eddington, aka "the Brit", for his high-class English accent for all that he'd never set foot on England's fair shores – his grandparents had though, as I recalled. The accent had skipped a generation. He had a reputation on the streets as being a thinker, and a leader. Also very brutal and ruthless when he needed to be – had no compunctions against spilling a little blood to get his way. Wasn't hard to guess who in charge of this operation, and who I'd have to guard against if ever I ran up against them.

On his six was Charlie Dawson, aka "Smokey Dawson", or simply "Smokes", with his usual bent cig in his mouth, although I was too far away to tell if it was lit or not. Rough piece of work, he was. Native Englander, came out when he was four, but didn't have an accent – he was far more likely to use his body, particularly his fists, to speak for him. More brawn than anything, but he had shown his rare moments of ingenuity. Still, he was definitely the enforcer of the group.

At least that was what Batman's files said.

What troubled me about all that, besides the fact they were here on my floor where they shouldn't be, was that there was no sign of their other two partners in crime – the Texan "Jax" and the Latino "Pedro" – when normally you couldn't get one without the other three. The fact that the other two were missing was troubling, especially as their last whereabouts had placed all four in the lobby of the hospital. Because it was never a good sign for the leader and the enforcer to leave the hostages behind. Unless the said hostages were dead, or otherwise incapitated; or cowed enough not to be a problem any longer. The other option was that he had some means of instant communication with the men he left in charge of the hostages so he could keep giving orders. Knowing what I did of the men he left, Tex and Pedro, I didn't think that those two were...stable enough to be looking after hostages, however cowed.

Nor did I like to think about what that meant for Donna's and Roy's safety. I'd sent them down there into that.

My lips thinned as I pushed those thoughts aside – for now. There was nothing I could do about that now, except handle the situation right in front of me. And that meant getting rid of – or at least evading – these two thugs so I could see to my friends.

Right. _'Easier said than done.'_

Because while they may be thugs, this Brit and Smokes still had all the advantages. Namely, guns, possible hostages, and the lighted corridor. They were holding all the keys and guarding all the doors, to quote a certain movie.

Obviously, I had to find a way to deal with these two thugs and quickly.

Only then did I notice exactly how much Tim had moved away from me and was leaning out into the little bit of light streaming into the room through narrow glass panel. It was probably one of the rare times that he wasn't aware of what he was doing physically, instead thinking no doubt of trying to get a better look at our two interlopers. But if _I_ could see him that clearly, I didn't want to think about what those two would see if they happened to look this way. I'd lost good friends that way, for a lot less.

Steeling myself, I put all my weight on my good leg, kept the crutch tucked under my shoulder so it could support me too, then released the hand-support long enough to reach up and across and pull Tim's shoulder, easing him back into the shadows I sheltered in. "Easy, kiddo," I whispered. "Don't let them see you." Letting him go, I immediately grabbed for the crutch once more. I could feel little beads of sweat pop out on my brow. '_Whoa. Don't do that again in a hurry.'_

"I won't, I swear," Tim promised just as quietly, letting himself be pulled back in and slipping fully back under my arm again. Then he leaned out in front of me almost immediately, twisting his neck to try and gain a better angle. "I just..."

I shook my head in exasperation. _'Kids these days.'_ "I already know who they are, Timbo," I hissed, forcefully tightening my arm around his shoulders to yank him back. "Now _come on_." I'd seen my fill once already and it was more than enough. Why did he have to be so determined? I tried to nudge him to move him further away from the door, away from the temptation and the potential for discovery.

Tim let himself be pulled back away from the door and away from that light – and thank goodness for that because I couldn't have really stopped him if he'd truly resisted me – but when we stopped he did twist his head to stare at me expectantly, his mouth a thin line. Obviously, someone didn't like my protective streak, and didn't like not being able to get a good look himself.

_'Well, bully for him.'_ Then he would have to learn to live it just this once, because I really just wanted him to _live_. "Remember those files I was looking at a few months ago?" I waited long enough for his nod. "They were in them. Those two are the Brit and Smokes. I'm really hoping that Pedro and Jax are still downstairs."

Comprehension, once again, was swift. He knew exactly what case I was talking about. His eyes widened. "That's why when you saw the GCPD's sketches..."

"Yeah." I nodded, and then added thoughtfully, "Though I'd really like to know how they got them done so fast..." Not to mention how they got them so accurate. Not even Batman had managed to get sketches of these four in all the months we'd been hunting them, and GCPD had sketches done in minutes? Something fishy was going on here.

Leslie shrugged. "Does it matter?" she asked, her voice strained, like she wanted to be anywhere but here. I didn't blame her. I didn't really want to be here either.

"Not right now, no," I replied thoughtfully, my mind racing, "but it's probably going to complicate things later." I didn't bother elaborating. Leslie obviously had enough on her plate as it was, and Tim could figure it out on his own.

The only way to generate the sketches that quickly would have to be from the hospital's internal security footage. Which meant someone was watching the cameras because the GCPD had been quick enough and smart enough to get a warrant, or someone was feeding the GCPD the footage (aka Oracle). And while I didn't draw as much of a distinction between my two personas as some, not knowing how Bat-friendly that "someone" was _would_ still hamper my style. There were some things that Officer Grayson just wasn't supposed to be able to do. Especially when injured.

Tim opened his mouth to reply, to say something, but never got the chance.

All of a sudden, the two gunmen were approaching our door. And talking. We could hear them. And if we could hear them...then they could hear us. No prizes for guessing that we shut up. Fast.

"_Did you hear that?"_ By the accent, that would have to be 'the Brit', aka Michael Eddington. The leader with a reputation for ruthlessness. And he'd probably just heard us, even though we hadn't exactly been talking loudly. If anything, we'd been talking softer than those two were right now. And yet he'd still heard us...through a door and everything... Tim and I shared a quick look. Nothing had been said in his file about good hearing. (Which was one reason why I never fully believed everything I read in the files until I met people in the flesh, much to Batman's chagrin.)

"_Prob'ly jus' the rocks in ya head rattlin'."_ And that would be Smokes, aka Smokey Dawson, aka Charlie Dawson. Charming, wasn't he just?

"_Oh, shut―"_

Uh oh. That definitely sounded ominous...and almost right outside the door. Our door. Tim and I exchanged a long look. I knew I'd hoped that they wouldn't notice that this room was darkened and the door shut, but maybe they were the paranoid type. Or maybe he'd simply stopped to tie up an uncooperative shoelace. Stranger things had happened. Wars had started over less.

"_Hold it,"_ the Brit ordered. "_Take a look at this."_ Definitely right outside our door and quite a few decibels lower than before. I immediately started making contingency plans for a break-in.

The door opened towards the wall, so Tim and I would be safe – relatively – standing where we were. It was Leslie that was in danger, still standing out in the open. I pressed myself against the corner just to be certain while Tim made a quick 'hustle' gesture to Leslie, trying to get her to go behind a couch or something. Anything that stood between her and the door would be a good idea and relatively safe. Well, saf_er_ at any rate. I didn't dare look through the glass to check what was going on, knowing that anyone looking in would see me through the light outside reflecting off my face. Instead I averted my head, trusting from long experience in this kind of thing that my black hair would blend into the shadows better than my pale skin and white eyes and teeth.

Silence.

I started mentally counting down the seconds. A little bet with myself to see how experienced they were at rushing a room. I'd reached negative three by the time the door popped open and the lights flashed on – so either good but rusty, or not so used to it. My money was on the latter. I had my eyes shut so the sudden light didn't startle me, since I'd been expecting that tactic anyway. Especially since the _lack_ of light seen through the glass panel in the door was probably what had tipped them off in the first place.

It was an interesting experience, hiding behind the door with Tim. Not that we hadn't had to hide in small spaces before. We had, and in smaller spaces than this, and done it successfully. I'd just never done it before with a splinted hand squashed between us – _definitely_ bad planning on my part – and a braced leg that refused to move to a more comfortable position than being squished by the door. Good way to distract myself from feeling and worrying. I had to bite my lip to avoid verbally telling Tim to _move_ before I moved him for him. The kid must be going through one of those awkward adolescent growing stages, because he certainly seemed all bony and awkward angles, pressed up against me as he was.

That, and I spent the time praying that Leslie had had time to hide.

Then I smelled it.

The distinctive sour-sweet tang of stale cigarettes made me scrunch up my nose, especially since it was mixed with the rather heady aroma of five-day-old sweat and body odor. It didn't come from Tim. Tim smelled like, well, Tim. Like sweat and mint and peppermint, probably from his soap, intermixed with a hint of cologne and shades of Komex treated rubber and Kevlar – aka wear the nightsuit long enough and it tended to sink into your pores. Literally. Translation: I needed to get this kid out more, which Alfred had also been on my back about lately.

And I knew the smell of cigarettes and offensive body odor wasn't from me, because I'd suffered the indignity of a sponge bath not a few hours earlier. Which left only one candidate: Smokes. Who apparently needed a lesson in hygiene. Or in the meaning of soap and how to use it. It was only my years of training that stopped me from gagging at the smell.

It was also only my training that stopped me from letting out some rather inappropriate curse words. Tim and I might be rather experienced at squishing ourselves into small spaces, and we _had_ managed to press ourselves into the corner well enough, but we'd never done it before with me in braces. And it showed. I had pieces of me sticking out in all kinds of places, in between me and Tim, between Tim and the door, and between me and the door, and none of it was comfortable. Or pain free.

It was one of the few times in my life that I found myself praying to be found. At least then the weights pressing down on my leg and hand would be gone.

I swear, I lived a lifetime (or two), holding it all back, waiting for something to change, waiting for the spark of pain blossoming behind my eyes to fade.

I heard a soft _tap-tap_ and a hard exhale of air, and knew that Smokes had shaken his cigarette and exhaled his smoke. Not only was it a habit of smokers, but it was in flagrant disregard for the hygiene of the hospital.

"Figures," I heard him mutter discontentedly.

He walked out. I could hear the footsteps as if they were right beside me. The lights flicked off, and darkness crashed back around us. The door clicked shut, and we were alone again.

Finally.

We waited in heightened silence. I was pretty sure none of us dared to breathe while we waited for the twin footsteps to finally move further up the corridor. On the positive side, it would at least give us time for our night vision to come back.

"_Did you see anything?"_

"_Nah. Must've been a false alarm. Always said ya had rocks in ya head."_

"_Shut up and come on. And do be quiet this time, would you? We don't want that cop to hear us."_ Despite myself, I sucked in a deep breath. And quietly ignored the look Tim promptly gave me mere inches away from my face. Yeah, I did get the irony of that. And it was so nice to be wanted.

"_Right. Piggy, Dabbie, then boom. Gotcha the first time,"_ Smokes grumbled, his voice slowly fading as they moved further up the corridor.

No further conversation followed, only the sound of their footsteps getting softer and softer. I wasn't ashamed to say that I was thankful their voices couldn't be heard after that as they passed out of earshot. I didn't care about what more I could've learned about them. I'd already learned enough. Enough to last me a couple of lifetimes at least.

"Well, that was fun," Leslie finally murmured quietly as she emerged from her hiding place behind one of the couches, brushing down her rumpled clothing and trying to re-tame her hair.

Tim just snorted in reply and pried himself off me and arranged himself by my shoulder.

I shook my head and leaned back against the corner, letting both walls prop me up. "That...was an understatement." My hands were shaking. Why was I shaking? I went through a lot worse most nights – heck most _days_ as an Officer, forget the nights on rooftops.

Maybe that was why Leslie was looking at me strangely. "Dick? Are you okay?"

I nodded. "Yeah." Adrenaline let-down. That must be it.

Her expression sharpened. "Right. Give me your hand."

Breathing deeply to gather myself together, I allowed myself one clench-and-unclench to stop the shakes, then obediently stretched out my right hand. I was rather proud of how steady it looked.

"Not that one, Dick," she said quietly. "The other one."

I gave her a confused look, but switched hands anyway to give her my splinted one.

She took hold of it delicately, like it was one of Alfred's fine bone-china pieces. "Why is it so swollen?"

"It is? Uh..." _'Think fast, Grayson.'_ I tried a lop-sided smile. "Probably because I accidentally got it mashed between Tim and me when we were hiding behind the door. Bad planning on my part." _Very_ bad planning.

Tim grimaced. "Sorry, Dick. Kinda had other things on my mind."

Yeah, I could imagine.

Leslie hmmed. "Try wriggling your fingers for me then."

I shook my head and took my hand back, placing it once more over Tim's shoulders. "I'm sorry, Leslie. We can worry about my fingers _later_. We've got a few bigger problems on our hands."

"But at least let me loosen the splint a little. It has to be hurting."

I thinned my lips. "No Leslie. We don't have time." Even if I was amenable to the idea of someone touching that hand, which I wasn't, I was pretty sure the swelling would go down soon. Besides, I thought she wasn't supposed to be touching my skin and all that. "And anyway," I added, looking over at Tim by my shoulder, "I think we've got something else to worry about now."

"Yeah," he agreed, grimly. "We do. Kinda makes even your health problems pale into insignificance."

I wasn't sure whether worried or annoyed by that statement, and settled on ignorance. Some things, I was better off not knowing about. At least for now.

Leslie frowned. "What do you mean?"

Tim spoke first. "Didn't you hear them talking, Doc? They're coming after _us_."

Actually, they were coming after _me_, but I let the technicality slide. Instead I squeezed Tim's shoulder with my arm, slung once more around his shoulders, in an effort to get him calm down. I knew why he was so...excitable, so tense. He had probably already subconsciously realized the inevitable way the situation was most likely to play out even if he was yet to do it consciously. I had no such problems with accepting the likely scenario. Now all I had to do was get them to agree to it.

"And there's more," I added. I decided to skip over the threat they'd made to Diablo, because I was pretty sure she'd want to hear about the other one first. "They mentioned a bomb, Leslie, and not in the rhetorical sense. I'm pretty sure they're planning to blow up the hospital once they're done, or if their demands aren't met."

She paled. "How do you..."

"Because they've done it before," I answered grimly, and found myself praying that she'd leave it at that.

Before I'd landed myself on the injured list, Batman and I had been slowly building a case about the bombing of a children's shelter in a refurbished firehouse last year. Five balaclava-clad gunmen had taken the place, and promptly held everyone inside hostage, including the kids. They'd demanded the usual, exorbitant amounts of money, release of prisoners, and so on, or else they'd kill everyone inside. And of course the city refused to pay, and the deadline was too tight to call in the vigilantes. There was barely enough time to call in a SWAT team.

To cut a long story short, the gunmen escaped the building before SWAT could be called in, somehow. The kids and the other hostages...were not so lucky. The gunmen had left behind a powerful bomb and detonated it on their way out. All buildings half a city block radius around the shelter were shaken or otherwise affected and the shelter itself was totally obliterated. Needless to say, any evidence there was to be found was compromised or destroyed. I'd seen the photos of what was left, and it wasn't pretty. On a brighter note, new evidence had emerged just a few months ago possibly tying Diablo, Eddington, Smokes, Jax, and Pedro to the scene as the five gunmen. That was why I'd been looking at their files a month or so ago. Then, it had been purely scientific research, a way of acquainting myself with the intended target. I hadn't intended a face-to-face encounter quite so soon, or I'd have paid the files a different kind of attention.

If anything, Leslie got paler. Maybe she could hear what I wasn't willing to say. "But...the patients... Evacuation. We have to evacuate the patients."

I swallowed. "I'm afraid it's a little too late for that, Leslie," I told her, as gently as I could. The problem with these kind of jobs was that hindsight was 20/10 vision. It had become too late the moment the gunmen walked in the door, but I didn't have the heart to tell her that. The only hope for 'evacuation' we had now was for a release of hostages, hopefully live ones, and I didn't want to tell her the odds of that happening. Not with this lot in charge. It was far more like they'd be released in body bags, if at all.

"But..."

"No, Leslie," I shook my head. "It's not going to happen while the gunmen are in charge of the hospital. They'll have to agree to it first, which they won't, or they'll have to be taken out."

"But there has to be some way..." she persisted.

That was Leslie. Despite her long-standing association with Bruce – or perhaps because of it – she'd never quite grasped the vigilante mindset. When presented with a threat, the first thing she did was look for a way to heal, while we tended to look for a way to take the threat down, eliminate it, usually by force. As for which way was better...I had no idea. Because it was basically the same mindset, built from the same motivations, just applied differently and with different tools of the trade. And while I loved her for it, I just wished she could've picked a better time and place to demonstrate this particular trait.

"There's not," I told her bluntly. "Either someone gets them to agree to a hostage release, which I personally think is as unlikely as getting Wally to slow down, or someone takes them down."

Tim was looking at me. "And by that 'someone'," he said slowly, "I take it you mean us. You and me."

That was what I liked so much about working with Tim. Never did have to explain myself too much. "Pretty much." I smiled a lop-sided grin. "Roy and Donna are out of the picture now, and I don't see anyone else volunteering."

"_No_." Leslie butted in, rising up to stride over to me and poke a finger in my chest. "Do you hear me, Dick? N. O. No. You are _not_ going anywhere or doing anything with that leg of yours and that hand."

And that was why Leslie, much as I loved her, could be, well, difficult to handle some days. I scowled at the finger and resisted the urge to bat it away from me. "I'm not dead yet. And for the record, I _can_ walk." As long as I used the crutch. Just...not very well. And not gracefully. Like a duck with one leg, as Roy would say. (Which I really wasn't that keen to try, especially without Tim. Not a good visual.)

She had the grace to drop the finger, but then she gave me the Look. At which point I knew I was in trouble. "And I'd like to keep you that way. You're. Not. Going."

Thankfully, I'd had years of perfecting my defenses against the _Look. 'Thank you Alfred.' _I stood my ground and met her gaze squarely. "Yes, I am. Do you really want to put up with my cabin-fever if I _don't_ go? And besides," I played my one of my trump cards, "I have a duty of care thing going here, Les. They're bad guys, on my turf, and I'm both a cop and a vigilante. I _have_ to at least do _something_ about it. I have to try. What if someone got injured, because of my inaction? I _have_ to do this."

Leslie sighed. Duty of care was something I knew she intimately understood. "I could cite the fact that technically you're both injured and off-duty, but since I know that's never stopped you before, I won't bother." Another sigh. She backed up a step, half-turned and threw her hands up. "Alright. _Fine_. Go." She whirled back and pointed her finger in my chest again. "But don't expect me to be too sympathetic if you come back to me all banged-up."

I gamely ignored the finger poking at me again and smiled reassuringly. "We'll be careful, Leslie." Even I could hear the well-meant concern behind her complaint, the years of standing by to watch us go and knowingly expose ourselves to danger. More, I could hear the worry buried deeper, for the hospital and the innocents inside, for the ones we didn't know and might not be able to protect. "And we'll do our best to leave the hospital intact."

A pained look flashed over her features. "That's not what I'm worried about." She didn't need to elaborate. It was that bomb she was concerned about, and what it could do to a hospital full of sick people. Being at the mercy of these intruders...the potential for fatality and casualties was immense.

"And that's why we have to do something," Tim said quietly. "We're the only ones that can, right now."

Actually, that wasn't quite true. There was the GCPD, I knew, and whatever SWAT team they might be able to get on site...but to get up here they'd have to get through the lobby. I doubted that would be happening anytime soon, with the other two gunmen still unaccounted for. Pedro and Jax were just well-trained enough and crazy enough to be able to hold off a trained squad. But Batman and I had both found weaknesses in their firehouse plan that a well-trained vigilante (or two) could easily exploit. I was hoping that there were similar weaknesses this time as well.

"I know, I just..." she sighed and trailed off. Then she gathered herself and gave us both a sharp look. "Well, if you're going to get them, then you'd better going. I don't imagine they're going to be very happy when they find out that you're not in your room."

I grinned faintly. "There is that." It was enough to make me thankful that I hadn't had anything important in my room. At least I didn't think I had, but then Alfred might've brought something in that I wasn't aware of, but there was nothing I could do about it now. "You with me, Tim?"

"Yeah, yeah." He shifted under the arm slung over his shoulders to help bear his portion of my weight more fully, and in the process eased me away from where I was still pressed into the corner. Or, rather, from where I'd been using the two walls to support me, in addition to the stupid crutch. So I let him take my weight – a little – as we moved in front of the door, while I put as much as I could on the crutch. It was awkward, I'll admit, because he wasn't quite my height enough to deal with my full weight properly, and I'll maintain to my dying day that whoever invented the crutch needed to be shot, but we managed.

It was about this point that Tim heard something. Something that made him stiffen under my arm. "Um, Leslie? You'd better get behind a couch or something." His voice had dropped into his Robin tones, and I knew instantly he'd heard something important, and the order to Leslie wasn't idle.

Then I heard it too. The quiet creak of the door to the stairs. Tim had probably heard it open, because I was hearing it shut. "Quickly, Doc," I hissed. "We've got more incoming!"

Footsteps, coming our way, just a bit too heavy to be Roy or Donna. Too careless, too confident. Too _noisy_.

Watching Leslie's retreat, it was at this point that it hit me just how much a liability I was. Even Leslie, as old as she was, could move faster than me. If push came to shove, as I suspected it soon would, then I'd be the one who'd have to be protected. I simply wouldn't be able to move my body fast enough to take anyone down. They'd be able to see me coming a proverbial mile away. For all my brave words to Leslie, my reaction time was hampered by the brace on my leg and the crutch, both of which I hadn't had time to fully adjust to, and that wasn't even considering what it cost me in pain and energy just to move.

I might have been running on morphine and adrenaline, but the underlying pain was still there. I could feel it. And when I finally crashed, it was going to be _spectacular_. It was like seeing a car accident coming towards you at slow motion, and not being to do anything about it.

And speaking of not being able to do anything...

Tim tried to urge us back towards the wall behind the door again, back where we'd just come from. I stumbled under the force of his push, but managed to stand my ground. Mainly because his push made me lose my grip on the crutch and I almost went down, and he was forced to catch me before I hit the floor. I was so far past dignity by this point that, well, whatever worked. I shook my head 'no' when he got me upright again. There wasn't the time for me to make it to the corner – that liability thing again – and even if there was, I had the sinking feeling in my gut that what was coming down the corridor was something far worse than last time.

And once again, I was right.

I'd just managed to get back on my feet, and Tim had his arms wrapped somewhat awkwardly around my chest and waist to help me stay upright while I got the crutch back into position, when it happened.

The door sprung open and hit the wall with a thump-bang.

The lights flicked on.

We froze.

"Caught ya."

And that _did not_ sound like Roy or Donna.

* * *

_**Next up / Teaser:**_ Ticking clocks must either strike or stop...

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_Feedback much appreciated. I've rewritten this thing four or five times and still think it has excess baggage. Arghs._


	6. Hickory Dickory Dock

_**Summary:**_ The clock that ticks must either strike or stop eventually. Which will it be?

_**Notes:**_ Also, please forgive me if I get a few details about guns wrong. We have very strict gun controls where I write, and all high-powered and semi-automatic guns are so off the market, they might as well be on Pluto. Other guns aren't much better. Asking about guns, _especially_ at my age, is a sure-fire way to arise suspicion from levels of law enforcement that I definitely do not want. So I've done the best I can, but research can only carry me so far.

**PS:** I know. Its late. I'm sorry. RL has been...hell. I won't bother you with the details. Suffice to say that I've given you an extra-interesting chapter by way of apology. :-)

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* * *

**CALL OF DUTY  
Obstacle Course**

_**6. Hickory Dickory Dock**_

* * *

_Hickory Dickory Dock,__  
The mouse ran up the clock.  
__The clock struck one,  
The mouse fell down.  
Hickory Dickory Dock._

* * *

The door sprung open and hit the wall with a thump-bang that echoed around the previously quiet room.

The lights flickered on what seemed like a heartbeat later, stabbing into my eyes, blinding me. I knew right away that Tim had to be in the same state and that we'd lost all element of surprise. If we'd ever really had it in the first place.

We froze in position. And what a position to freeze in. I'd just managed to get back on my feet, and Tim, standing behind me, had his arms wrapped somewhat awkwardly around my chest and waist, helping me stay upright while I got the crutch back into position. Not exactly an appealing situation, but I could think of a few worse.

"Caught ya."

That did not sound good. For one thing, it didn't sound like Roy or Donna. It didn't sound like Roy period. Roy, for all his quirks, did not speak with a broad Texas accent. In fact, I could only think of one person in the hospital who would say _those_ two words with _that_ accent, and the presence of said person did not look good for my general health.

Still, no one who knows me ever said I was a coward. I forced myself to smile, and nudged Tim to complete the turn towards the door. What I saw confirmed all my worst expectations. "Hello, Jax. And you too, Pedro. Long time, no see," I cracked, forcing an even wider smile. It was, after all, logical that those two would be the ones standing there, even if the accent weren't a dead giveaway. I'd already "met" the Brit and Smokes, and these last two were all that I needed to round out our "fearsome foursome" of gunmen.

First, there was "Jax" – a Texan who answered to no other moniker. He kept his imagination for other areas, because he was a tactician if ever there was one. Not a planner by any means, which was why he never led, but he could instinctively manipulate a situation to intimidate people and get them to do what he wanted. If he wasn't high on something. And it didn't help matters that he was also a very good sharpshooter, whether he was high or not. Most definitely someone to watch out for.

Standing with Jax was the Latino of the foursome, Rafi Alvarez, otherwise known as "Pedro". No idea why. He was the mystery man of the gang. Although he had a history of being an enforcer, he was also a strategist and a planner – if you could pin him down and get him to stay on the one topic long enough to get something decent out of him. Unlike our dear Jax, drugs weren't Pedro's problem – it was simply a question of too much energy. In short, you usually didn't know which way he'd leap until he did. On the other hand, he'd be a good all-rounder if you could just get him to settle down and _focus_.

Speaking of focus...I couldn't help but see the guns leveled specifically at _me_. This was not good on so many levels I couldn't even begin to count them.

"Well, lookie here," Jax drawled. "Looks like we've caught ourselves a smart one. Exactly how do you know those names, boyo?" he prompted, the barrel of his gun never wavering from my heart.

"I watch plenty of TV," I replied flippantly. It wasn't that far from the truth, really. "Have to do something in between the meal breaks." And it was a sad thing when said meal breaks were the highlight of my day. Not for the food, but for the chance to talk to someone. Definitely not for the food.

Pedro, the one standing at his back, smirked and muttered something in Spanish I didn't quite catch. Or, rather, I did, just barely, but I was fairly sure it was insulting, and anatomically impossible besides. Just once, couldn't a bad guy come up with something more interesting than _that_?

Jax smirked as well, obviously in on the joke. "He watches Tee-Vee, he says. Well, boyo, since you're so up with the times, you'd better come with us. We got someone real anxious to meet ya."

The Brit and Smokes. I narrowed my eyes. Yeah, I bet they were just _aching_ to see me. "How about I don't, and we say I did."

"Nice try, pig," Pedro grinned at me, "but I'm afraid we have to insist." He shifted his gun to point at Tim while Jax kept me covered. "Or the little man, here, gets it."

Tim raised his free hand and did his best to look meek and innocent. Given that it was an expression he'd practiced on Superman, Jack Drake, Batman, _and_ Alfred at various points in his life, it wasn't a bad act. I just wasn't sure that these two jerks could appreciate its nuances. "Hey, man, no need to get violent with us. We was just passing through."

Obviously, Tim was going for the laid-back, wide-eyed innocent role, hoping to lull them into underestimating him. That left me with the role of the straight-laced big brother cop, because they _wouldn't_ be underestimating me. On the other hand, maybe they would be, because I was willing to bet that I looked like a sharp gust of wind would blow me over if I let go of Tim.

As if on cue, they both cocked their weapons. Jax smiled a nasty smile. "Yeah, boyo, ya'll're 'passing through', because ya'll're both coming with us." The '_or else_' was unmistakable.

Tim tensed slightly under my arm and looked over at me. _'Can I take them?'_ He cocked his head slightly. _'Can I? Please?'_ He was so eager that I almost smiled. Almost.

I peered out of the corners of my eyes at the pair of gunmen without moving my head, gauging how well they were holding their guns against how well I could move out of the way. There was less than a yard between them and us. Tim would have no trouble making his move, once he let go of me. But me? I didn't like my survival chances. Getting to the floor and out of the way would be no hassle; it was the aftermath that worried me. I didn't like the confident way they held those guns, or how close their fingers were to the triggers. I looked back to Tim and raised one eyebrow. _'Only if you're willing to pick the bullets out of my backside.'_

He sighed. _'Well, it was a thought.'_ The whole exchange had taken under a second. He faced the two gunmen and pasted a resigned look on his face. "Lead the way."

I could see him blinking at them innocently out of the corner of my eye, and had to work to keep my face neutral so as not to give it away. As long as they were in front, we'd have the advantage -- of both sight and surprise -- and then...

But Pedro grinned at him as if Tim had just made a great joke. "I like you, little man. You're funny. No, you're _both_ in front."

Jax smirked. "No funny business that way."

Drat. There went that idea. This pair was too smart by half.

Jax jerked his head in the direction of my old room and stepped back from the doorway. "Now, start walking."

Obligingly, Tim walked, and I kind of half-lurched, half-staggered beside him. Never let it be said that we couldn't follow an order. We...managed. Or something like that. I imagined that we looked rather ungainly in the process, though, kind of like a half-drunk pair of three-legged race contestants... Tim being the sober half and me the crippled, plastered one.

Apart from that, there wasn't that much unusual about the walk back to room 426. If you put the gunmen, crutch, brace, hospital decor, and the pervading smell of antiseptic aside, it might as well have been a Sunday stroll in the park.

Although, I had to admit, the corridor sure seemed a lot longer on the way back than it had seemed on the way out. Maybe it was because this time I had a fair idea of what awaited me. Last time I'd made this journey, I'd been headed to a relatively-unknown visitors lounge; this time, I knew I was heading into a volatile situation that was more than likely to explode in my face. Literally. Moreover, I was doing it voluntarily.

Well, somewhat voluntarily.

On the other hand, this time I was making this fun-filled journey with Jax and Pedro for added company, instead of with Leslie. I missed the Doc, and not just because she preferred the stethoscope to the gun. She also made for better company. Jax and Pedro had the disconcerting habit of talking softly to each other in Spanish, deliberately excluding Tim and me from the conversation. They were lucky I wasn't in the mood to take offense at that...or show them exactly how well I understood their dialect.

Mainly because it was taking all my energy to keep up with Tim and look like it wasn't costing me anything to do so, but still. It was the principle of the thing.

And right about now, Roy should have been muttering in my ear something about knowing better now how _he_ feels when Tim and I are in a zone and talking to each other in Bat-speak, and the way we can hold long silent conversations from across crowded rooms...which is really handy at boring cocktail parties and—

'_That isn't helping, Grayson,'_ I growled at myself. Not only because Roy was nowhere in sight, but, more to the point, this wasn't a cocktail party. Alfred would have had a conniption fit – or something – if I'd turned up to one of those in sweats. _'Nice thought, though.'_

It was at this point that I suddenly noticed two things in quick succession.

First, Tim was tapping a message out to me using the hand curled around my waist in Batman's version of Morse code. _'...plan Dick?'_ Okay, so I'd only paid attention in time to catch the ending, but I still caught the gist of it. He wanted to know if I had any plans for what was to come. Fair question. I was wondering that myself.

Second, we were already almost at my old room. Room 426, in all its lovely glory. My own thoughts had so occupied my attention that I hadn't noticed before just how close we were.

Note to self: If I didn't already have a plan, now would definitely be a good time to start thinking of one.

Although, I could already see that that the problem wasn't so much what plan to use, but finding a way to communicate it in a hurry to Tim. I had my right hand wrapped rather tightly around the support handle of the crutch, and I couldn't see myself letting go of it anytime soon, and my left hand was stuck in a brace for the near future. I could barely move the fingers of that hand, and that was the one I had conveniently situated on Tim's shoulder. In short, no signing or tapping out of Morse code for me.

That left speech and coded words, neither of which were really as easy as it sounded – pardon the pun. Especially with Jax and Ped literally breathing down our necks.

Thinking quickly, I casually leaned towards Tim and dropped my voice. _"Follow my lead,"_ I whispered to him in Russian.

_"Nice plan,"_ Tim snarked back in the same language. Apparently, he could recognize equivocation just as well as I could. _"Got anymore bright ideas?"_

I flashed him a tight grin. _"This __is__ plan B. Plan A was running while we had the chance."_

"Hey!" barked Pedro. "What's with the whispering and stuff? No funny business!" He jammed his gun into my spine for good measure.

I tensed and forced myself not to react more strongly. _'Just keep walking, Grayson.'_ I'd have bruises there the size of that gun-barrel tomorrow. "I'm allowed to reassure my little brother, aren't I?" I shot back over my shoulder. "Gotta take care of family, ya know." Okay, I'll admit it. I was making shameless use of inside information and relying on Ped's strong sense of familial connections, based on the fact that he'd been separated from his true biological family since the age of thirteen – at least, that was what Batman had written in his file. _'Please let the file be right. Just this once, let Batman be right.'_

I could practically feel the glares trying to remove the skin off my back through my nice, thick, fleecy, hooded jacket. This time it was Jax, the Texan, who spoke. "What about that lingo, eh? Why ya'll're talking so weird?"

"Family language," I replied glibly, and left it at that. Let them assume that it was our first language, instead of something we'd all painstakingly learned to please the Bat.

Finally, we were at the door to my old room. Room 426. The very room I'd tried to escape from no more than half an hour ago. It felt like an eternity ago and yet no time at all.

I regarded the door to that room warily. I knew who was inside: the other two gunmen, the Brit and Smokes, hopefully with clues as to the location of this bomb. Maybe even, although I wasn't getting my hopes up, some clues as to what had happened in the lobby to the hostages and to Roy and Donna. However, I was also trying not to think to hard about that. I just didn't have the energy to spare.

My sole consolation in all this was that at least no one was expecting me to open the door to room 426 by myself. At least, if they were, I was definitely planning to go on strike, lodge a union protest, or something. There was _no way_ I was going to open up that door. Not me, no way, not in my condition.

As if to prove me right, the door chose that moment to open. By itself.

Or rather, someone opened it from the other side. The door swung open into the room, and not into the corridor – and not, therefore, into me. Thank goodness for small favors.

Guess who was standing there?

The Brit. Michael Eddington. All five feet one inches of calculating gun-wielding ruthlessness. A pipsqueak of a man who never let his lack of height interfere with his thirst for cruelty – actually, I'd say that it drove him on. More to the point, he had that gun of his aimed straight at my chest. "Ah, the great Blüdhaven copper who took down Diablo," the Brit greeted me, his polished tenor almost purring. "I've been waiting for you."

I fought down my unease, because it never goes down very well when the criminals know me by my civilian occupation. Not only that, but his accent was disconcertingly similar to Alfred's. _'Lovely. Always nice to be expected.'_ I smiled anyway. Grayson Special #3, smooth but definitely _not_ friendly. "Hope we haven't kept you waiting long."

I got an equally smooth smirk back for my trouble. "Not at all. Now," he continued, his smirk shifting to something cruel and calculating that I had a feeling I'd be seeing a lot of in the future, "in the words of the immortal spider, 'Welcome to my parlor'. Do come in." He stepped aside to hold the door open with his free hand. He jerked his gun slightly to invite us inside, ever so polite. As if we needed the invite.

I waited a fraction of a section, knowing full well we would be walking into a death trap. Gently, I nudged Tim's hip to get him to follow. To his credit, Tim obeyed. On the other hand, considering we had at least three guns pointing at us and we were unarmed, it was probably the wisest course.

I tried not to hear the clang of prison doors closing in the sound of the door shutting behind Jax and Ped who had followed us in. I wasn't very successful.

Then it was just the two of us, Tim and I, standing in the middle of the room, with the four of them ranged around us...with guns. All pointed in our direction. Not good odds.

It made me very grateful for Tim's silent, supportive presence by my side, more grateful than words alone could truly express. Because just getting here had made it abundantly clear to me that I really shouldn't be up and walking right now – not that I was ever going to admit that outside the privacy of my own head. Especially not to Leslie or Tim, who'd never let me hear the end of it. It was only the morphine and my own stubborn will keeping me going. Those, and the conviction that getting up again if I ever sat down would be...very unpleasant, and far worse than walking.

I was pretty sure that there were worse ways to go, but I had no intention of trying them. Not today, anyway.

Unfortunately for me, judging by the looks of those four faces, they were keen on my finding out, regardless. The hard way.

I subtly tightened the arm I had around Tim's shoulders, silently swearing to myself that I was not letting him go for _anyone_ or _anything_. _Ever_. He was mine, my little brother, my partner, and we were in this _together_. Call me big brother, call me overprotective partner, but the reaction was instinctive. It had to be, in our line of work, in our family. Problem was, it revealed entirely too much of where my loyalties lay, and even as I made the gesture, I mentally cursed how much I was exposing to a room full of hostiles.

I just knew that this was going to be used against me at some point; but at least I didn't have much time to think about it, which was probably just as well.

The Brit, Michael Eddington, started talking. He was also eying the two of us in a way that I distinctly did _not_ appreciate. "Well, well, what do we have here?" he asked rhetorically. "I'll tell you what we have. We have an apparently not-so-smart Blüdhaven copper, and...who is this?" He paused for a moment, and then smiled gleefully. "His little brother! Better and better, I always say. Two for the price of one!"

Although I bristled inwardly at the digs, I only tightened my already fierce grip on the crutch. I was not going to give him – give them – the satisfaction of knowing their taunts had struck home. I. Was. _Not_. Under my arm, I felt Tim tense and straighten at the unspoken threat, that _he_ would be the one hurt if I did not cooperate. I felt so proud of him then, that he was capable of recognizing the threat and yet able to hold himself back from reacting. Mainly because my brother was Robin, and if he _had_ reacted, I'd have been more worried for them than for him.

Eddington's eyes flicked to a point behind us. "Are you sure they were alone when you picked them up?"

Silence. But whatever he saw seemed to satisfy him, so I gathered that someone back there must have nodded. I tried not to look too relieved at that, and didn't dare to look at Tim. They _hadn't_ spotted Leslie, then. That was good in so many ways I couldn't count. We still had our 'ace-in-the-hole'. Moreover, I knew from long experience that it only took one person to shift the balance and make a difference in situations like this. (Yeah, okay, it was easier with a team for backup, but one person with the right skills could get the job done just as well.)

(It was also an opinion I'd learned not to mention aloud where other cops could hear me. Thin blue line and all that solidarity stuff. Talking that way quickly got me labeled with 'vigilante-cop', 'rogue', and so on. Not what I wanted to hear when I was there to help.)

My eyes flicked back to the Brit when he smiled that cruel, calculating smile that twisted something inside me. "Well now," he said, "let's get down to brass tacks, shall we?"

Definitely an English expression. I smiled back at him. "Yes. Let's talk."

This was going to be interesting. My vigilante training said I should physically take control of the situation, worry about my body later, and bring all four of them down ASAP before someone got hurt. As in yesterday, if not earlier. On the other hand, my police training said that I should conserve my energy, bide my time, and do everything I could to make sure all the hostages survived to the end of this, whenever that was. (The fact that one of the hostages was myself was inconsequential.) Personally, I was simply more concerned about Tim and the people in the lobby. I was just going to have to find some way to balance all the conflicting demands on my attention.

This didn't leave me with many options in the short-term.

Especially not when Smokes left his position near the wall and advanced towards us. He stopped about a yard away and started circling, like a predator stalking his prey. I did not fail to note the malicious gleam in his eyes, nor the fact that even as he encircled us, all four guns remained trained on us. I dared not move. Tim was slowly tensing under my arm, preparing himself for action, and I could feel in him the effort of holding himself back from, well, _doing_ something about the situation.

By the time Smokes was in front of us again, the tension in the room was thick enough to cut with a knife. Like a meat cleaver kind of knife. Unfortunately, I was fresh out of cleavers, so I settled for staring instead.

I fixated on Smokes as he came back around, meeting his gaze steadily when he tried to look me up and down. There was, of course, a method to my madness. Roy had told me more than once that my unprotected stare is more than a little disconcerting. He said it was the piercing color of my eyes, and I told him right back that it was the Bat training. Whatever. All I knew was that for once, I didn't mind using it to my advantage.

It didn't surprise me when Smokes was the first to blink, drop his eyes, and glance away. He covered by smirking as if he'd intended to do that all along. But then he raised his gun and cocked his arm back.

I barely had time to brace myself before the gun-barrel smashed into my cheek.

I rolled with the blow. A pistol whipping was actually the least of what I'd expected for my little show of defiance. _'Note to self, Grayson: next time, let the idiot with the gun win the staring match.'_

But at least Tim was safe. That was what really mattered.

Carefully, I worked my jaw, making a show of checking for breaks or fractures. There were none, as far as I could tell, but I already knew that I was going to have some incredible bruising down the right side of my face. Still, I mused to myself as I faced forwards again, a few bruises were better than the alternative.

Much better.

Focusing on that was better than focusing on exactly how much the side of my face hurt. It also gave me something to think about other than how badly I was going to bruise. Because there was also the matter of Tim. I could feel him beside me, coiled like a viper, the tension in his muscles tighter than an archer's bow, just waiting for a word from me to set him free. I shifted my weight off him – a little – to let him know I was doing okay and that he didn't need to act just yet.

I felt Tim relax a little, and felt a bit of the tightness I hadn't even been aware of ease itself out of my muscles. One little crisis passed; now for the rest of it.

Because I _was_ okay. Relatively. I could tell from long experience that the force of the blow had stopped just short of breaking something important. But that didn't mean it didn't hurt like a son of a b**ch, that I wasn't bruised like I'd walked into a door with fists...or that I couldn't play it up a little.

I blinked up at Smokes, not even trying to hide the dizziness and double vision.

Even to my eyes, Smokes Dawson looked smug, like he'd just won something major over me. "Not feeling so clever now, eh Mister?"

I licked my lips and tasted blood. "Feelin' jush peachy." Hmph. My words sounded a little...mushy. Some antiseptic probably wouldn't go astray right now. "Thanks for asking." This time, I tried to keep my letters more precise, but the sibilants still came through slurred. Oh well. It was the best I could do through the haze of pain.

There was a rustling sound behind me, as though either Jax or Pedro was wiping their hands on their pants. Maybe one of them was getting nervous at such an obvious show of violence. _'Interesting...'_ I didn't dare turn around to confirm which one. Not with Tim still supporting most of my weight, and Eddington and Smokes watching our every move.

"Now, don't forget the little one, Smokes," the Brit said suddenly, looking directly at me and smirking again. Drat. My show of misdirection hadn't fooled him, after all. My jaw throbbed anew.

"Wha—" Tim blurted before he – or I – could stop him. Obviously, someone had not been paying full attention to his surroundings. He'd probably been too worried about me.

I tightened my grip on his shoulders to signal him to _shut up_, and did my best to push him behind me. Given that I was resting part of my weight on him and the rest on a crutch, it was a little awkward, but I managed. It was time to reveal one of my trump cards, and I wanted Tim as far out of the line of fire as possible. It was a little earlier than I'd planned it, but circumstances had forced my hand.

It was a risky plan. Given how little provocation it had taken for Smokes to lash out at me, I had a feeling that what I was about to attempt might just as easily blow up in my face. However, it was either this, or watch as Tim got hurt in front of me...

Yeah, right. As if.

I inhaled deeply and briefly considered my options. There were none. _'Oh, what the heck, Grayson. Just do it.'_ I let the breath out, stood tall – well, as tall as I could – narrowed my gaze, and raised my chin slightly. "You'll have to go through me first, Eddington," I announced as firmly and as coldly as I could without actually slipping into my Nightwing voice.

I'd like to say that everyone in the room froze, but that would be being charitable to ice. More like they started giving me death-glares. I just stood there and took it calmly. They had nothing on Batman.

"You know my name," the Brit said softly but with a dangerous edge. Oh yeah, I definitely had his attention now. (I actually knew practically all their names from their files, but I was saving that for later.)

"He knows our nicknames, too," Jax volunteered but not kindly from somewhere behind me. The effort of keeping my speech clear and ignoring my throbbing face, not to mention everything else in my body, meant I couldn't spare the energy to pinpoint his location just yet.

If anything, the temperature in the room got even colder.

I met Eddington's gaze calmly. "Yeah, so?" Okay, not my most brilliant reply. But it worked.

It was suddenly so quiet in the room that I almost asked someone to drop a pin. Eddington just stared back at me, working his jaw silently. "How?" he finally managed, his voice strangled. In other words, 'how did I find out?'

"Your reputation precedes you," I shot back dryly. More like I had years of practice at recognizing people from bad Identikit sketches, so I was telling the truth. From a certain point of view.

Something in my reply must have been amusing, because Eddington quickly got control of himself again and his mouth curled into a small smile. Not the smirks or cruel grins that I'd seen so far, but an actual, genuine smile. It put me in mind of the kind of smile I used to see on Bruce's features when he'd approved of something I'd just done. Except that I had the uneasy feeling that the smile didn't mean quite the same thing here.

Eddington's sharp eyes bored into mine. "Should I be...pleased at this?"

I ignored my unease and snorted as if in disbelief. "Nah, I just make a habit of getting to know my collars. I live longer that way."

There was a pause. Then the small smile grew. "Oh, bravo, Mister Grayson. I always knew you'd be good."

_'What the hell—'_ Oh, that did not sound good. It was _never_ good when the criminals knew my _name_, let alone started threatening _me_ personally. "Say _what?_"

Now, the smile turned positively gleeful, even smug. "Your reputation precedes _you_."

Yes, okay, I admit it stung to have my own words thrown back at me in such a cavalier manner, but I was bit more interested in the mystery standing right in front me. "Like _hell_ it does," I shot back and narrowed my eyes at him, not impressed in the least by his display of 'smarts'. Because I had gone to a lot of trouble to keep the Grayson name _out_ of the media and thus out of circulation.

He widened his eyes in an almost comical attempt to convince me of his words. It was only comical because we all knew who was really holding most of the cards here, and it wasn't me. "Oh, no, it's true. Even in Gotham, we have heard of the Blüdhaven detective who knows more than he should and is entirely too successful at getting his man."

I relaxed slightly. _'Good.'_ That meant I was succeeding – plus it told me where he'd found out my name from. I smiled the Grayson Special #4: I'm dangerous and I know it. "Wish I could say it's a pleasure to meet you." I let out a breath and turned on the charm full force. Grayson Special #1, the megawatt-full-blast. It pulled on the bruising and swelling on my cheek, and by the expression on the others' faces, it was a bit on the gruesome side: the perfect smile on a battered face. I also decided it was time to live up to that reputation and give them a display of knowing what I shouldn't. "Now, if you could just tell me where your bomb is, I'll be on my way and out of your hair."

Eddington's mouth opened, but Smokes beat him to it. "How do you know 'bout dat bomb?"

"Charlie!" Eddington rebuked sharply. It was already too late, though. The proverbial cat was out of the bag, and he had simply confirmed what I'd already known.

"You should be quieter going through these hospital corridors. You never know who might be listening in." I paused a moment. "Although," I added almost as an afterthought, "if you guys were so desperate to find me, all you had to do was look me up in the phone book. I'm under 'G'," I said helpfully.

I also made a point of ignoring Tim's painful dig into my poor ribs. Yes, I knew what I was doing, and no, I didn't need his help. Thanks all the same.

I waited.

Predictably, Eddington reacted first. His gaze flicked to Jax and Pedro behind me. "Where did you say you found them, again?" he asked with remarkable calm.

"Uh, didn't say, boss," said Pedro. His Hispanic accent was distinctive enough that I realized he was behind me and to my left – which meant Jax was to my right. The accent that would have actually been soothing, under other circumstances.

"Visitors' lounge," volunteered Jax. "Second big room on yer left as ya come out of the elevator." I'd already noticed that about Jax. He had a nasty habit of 'volunteering' information that I didn't always want volunteered.

Silence. It was the calm before the storm.

Knowing what was coming, I gingerly shifted so that I was standing a little more in front of Tim, but kept my hand on him in an effort to get him to relax. That kid was way too tense for his own good. He was like a compressed spring, full of potential energy, waiting to be let loose on the world. In this case, though, I had a bad feeling that "letting him loose" would be far too bloody. For him, not for them.

Once again, Eddington reacted first. He half-turned to Charlie "Smokes" Dawson, snarling, "See! I _told_ you that there was something wrong with that room!" I decided to ignore the fact that, even in the middle of his semi-explosion, his submachine gun never wavered from my heart. Obviously, I had to do a little more to get the man off-balance.

In the meantime, Smokes didn't like what Eddington was accusing him of. "Then next time, do yer own dirty work!" he retorted shortly. I was, however, quite gratified to see Smokes' aim start deviating away from us.

Out off the corners of my eyes, I noticed that Jax and Pedro shifting their positions. Instead of standing at my back, they were now flanking me. Just enough in my peripheral vision to be distraction. It was, however, also enough for me to see that their attention was not fully focused on us, but was also on Eddington and Smokes.

Finally, I was pushing the right buttons, and getting the right answers.

All the situation needed was little bit more of a _push_, and... I narrowed my eyes speculatively at Eddington, estimating my chances. When it came time to act, I'd have to be quick and decisive. With that in mind, Eddington was the logical target. There was no doubt in my mind that he was the one to worry about in this little drama. The trick, as always, would be having it out with him unhindered by others...or by Tim.

Yes, I did just say 'Tim'. Remember that spring analogy? Think instead of a 'cat on a hot tin roof', times ten. He was now at the stage of 'point and release', then sit back and watch the fireworks. Literally. Except that this situation was a little too dangerous for fireworks and I needed to come up with a plan for containment. Fast.

Luckily for me I already had the rudiments of one.

It would be tricky, difficult, and dangerous, and it would require a lifetime of skills to pulls off...but I could do it. I was sure of it. In my line of work, winning was fifty percent skill, fifty percent training, and one hundred percent confidence...plus one percent luck. It was that one percent luck, which could go either way, that tended to get one into (or out of) trouble.

For the moment, though, that little bit of luck seemed to be swinging my way. Our four gunmen were getting increasingly involved in their argument, and their attention was distracted from Tim and me.

Perfect. It was time to make my move.

Without giving myself time to think about it – hey, I was a man of action, not deliberation – I let go of Tim and shifted my weight forward, preparing to take a step. Well, actually, I was planning to lunge towards Eddington, but my body rebelled against the idea.

All I felt was pain. White-hot pain. Incredible agony seized my brain and refused to let go. It was so bad my vision clouded over and I think I might have gasped aloud at the sudden shock of it but I'm not sure. Everything was fuzzy by that point.

I don't know how long it was until I could think again, but I know it was a while.

The first thing to penetrate the pain freezing my thoughts was a sensation of hardness along my front, and a faint ache, as if I'd hit that hardness awkwardly and unexpectedly. It took awhile for the realization to penetrate. The floor. I was lying on the floor. No. I'd _fallen_ to the floor. Which was strange. I was an acrobat. I didn't fall. Why had I fallen?

With that realization came another: someone was with me, holding me. I could feel their arms around me, pinning me down. I instinctively struggled, still blinded by the pain in my lower body. Then sound started to penetrate the haze, and I heard Tim whispering in my ear to calm down, that he was only trying to help. Whispering. Why was he whispering?

Finally, other sounds fell into place as well: raised voices in the background, rushing footsteps, and the clicks of gun safeties. With the noises came my memories. _'Hospital...Leslie...siege...Tim...gunmen...pain...my leg collapsing?...'_

Right. Now that I was back on the appropriate mental page, it was high time I did something about those gunmen. I opened the eyes I hadn't realized I'd closed, only to find out that it was too late.

They were already upon us.

Well, actually, three of them were. That much I could tell at a glance. Smokes, Jax, and Ped. The other one, Eddington, stood back near the far wall, observing the scene with a self-satisfied smile, like this was all going according to some grand plan of his. Smug little so-and-so.

Then, I had no time for thoughts, no time to look anywhere but right in front of me, no energy to spare from fighting for my life. The fact that half my body was in so much agony I could barely feel anything below my waist was beside the point.

They were quick. I was faster.

I was also fighting dirty. I had to. Fighting in such an enclosed space with Tim literally beside me meant that nerve clusters and bones were fair game. They'd endangered not just me, but _my brother_. They were going down _hard_.

It was a blur, a confusing jumble of pain and blows and dodges and curses – not all of them mine. Except for the pain. I was pretty sure that the pain was mine. I ignored it, for the most part. Tibetan mind techniques, gotta love 'em. Of course, they weren't working as well as they usually did, but I _was_ kinda distracted. Still, they'd be enough to get me through this.

I hoped.

Another thing that came in handy a lot was the crutch. A bit like a bulky bo stick. Necessity really _was_ the mother of invention, and I was definitely going to have to file this away for the next time I had to fight while injured. Using the crutch, I managed to deliver two simultaneous knockout blows to the thugs I was fighting, bringing both of them to the floor.

There was a brief moment of silence then, and I realized immediately that something had gone dreadfully wrong. This was a fight for our lives. There should never _be_ silence.

"Grayson!"

Right on cue, someone called my name. I looked up and over from my position on the floor, and felt my blood run cold. It was like having an up close and personal encounter with one of Victor Freeze's ice-o-matic guns.

_'Tim...'_

It would be wrong to say that time stood still, or that it stopped for us in that moment. Time always keeps moving, and in our case, it was moving inexorably forwards. But it could definitely slow down.

It was elementary arithmetic: three had initially approached. I had been fighting two, so that left one. Simple math, which I'd somehow lost track of in all the chaos. It was an amateur's mistake. I knew better. I'd been _trained_ better. And Tim was paying for it now. Maybe if I hadn't... _'Leave it, Grayson. It's happened. Or rather, didn't happen. Deal with it and move on.'_

The two I had taken down turned out to be Jax and Ped. That left Smokes. He had somehow managed to drag Tim away from me and was fighting to pin him down. Tim was fighting equally hard to get a hand on the gun. And I had no idea who'd win.

I looked over to where I'd last seen Eddington, when I heard the voice calling my name again, and found him holding his gun on me. Again. He was also standing a lot closer than I'd expected. Like only a yard away, when before there'd been about four times that space between us. And I was looking right down the barrel.

Needless to say, I stopped moving. Movement would be construed as a threat, and I had no desire to be shot on top of everything else.

"Get up."

I swallowed. Even hearing it, that sounded painful. "You want me to stand up? Or just sit?"

He smiled his cruel smile. "I would not ask if I did not want it. Remember that. Now. Get. Up."

I shrugged with pretended nonchalance. "Right. Fine. Your funeral." Inside, however, I was thinking very hard about how I was going to do this. In the end, it was both easier, and harder, said than done. Easier, because I did have the crutch to function as a support. And harder, because I couldn't really use that support properly until I was standing up and had it under my good arm.

Remember earlier, when I'd thought that getting up if I sat down would be more painful than walking? I was right.

Finally, I was standing, more or less, and looking Eddington in the eyes. Somewhat. I was keeping part of my attention on Tim's fight with Smokes. It was a good thing, too.

Because I was watching the entire time, and I _still_ didn't see how Smokes did it. That happens, sometimes, in fights. One moment is all it takes for it to go downhill. It literally happened that quickly. One second Tim was fighting Smokes and holding his own, and the next thing I knew there was a flash of silver, the gun was gone, and Tim was pinned. Smokes had managed to pin both arms behind his back, had one huge leg hooked over his to prevent him kicking out, and had one arm tightly around Tim's throat. Instict made me try to start forward to help, but Smokes glared at me meaningfully around Tim's head. Then he _smiled_ as he tightened his arm.

Being a Robin, it took a while before Tim made a choking noise.

I promptly froze, and Smokes released his hold on Tim's throat. A little. Even from where I was, I could see that his grip was still so tight that Tim could just barely breathe.

I glanced back to Eddington in time to see the cruel, calculating smile make a reappearance. "So. We find his weak spot."

Damn. I _knew_ protecting Tim was going to come back to bite me.

* * *

**--**

_**Teaser:**_ "You must know resistance is futile..."

_--_

_--_

_Final author's note: By the time you read the next offering from me, I will have *finally* changed my pen-name here at ff dot net. I've only held off till I got this monster of a chapter up. I'm going to be going under ArtisticAbandon, in the spirit of my favorite quote by Leonardo da Vinci: "Art is never finished, merely abandoned." I'm an eternal tweaker, and I never leave any of my works alone. Words to live by indeed._

_Oh, and that's not an implicit notice that this (or any of my works) are going on haitus. I've got chapters galore on my HDD and I intend to finish them all!_


	7. Mousetrap

_**Summary:**_ 'The clock struck one and the mouse fell down...'  
_**Rating:**_ PG13-15, this part only. Some violence and mention of the consequences of drug abuse._**  
Notes:**_ See above.

Also, many thanks to all who've sent me notes of encouragement, or have just generally nagged me to get stories finished over the last few months/year.

**

* * *

**

**CALL OF DUTY  
Obstacle Course**

_**7. Mousetrap**_

_

* * *

_

_I promptly froze, and Smokes released his hold on Tim's throat. A little. Even from where I was, I could see that his grip was still so tight that Tim could just barely breathe._

_I glanced back to Eddington in time to see his cruel, calculating smile make a reappearance. "So. We find his weak spot."_

_Damn. I __knew__ protecting Tim was going to come back to bite me._

_

* * *

_

Protecting people was as instinctive to me as the whole vigilante gig. It was something I did as easily as breathing. Not exactly something I could turn off.

Except that I'd never met an individual so capable of turning that instinct against me. Sure, many had tried. The Joker was one. Two-Face was another. But no one had really succeeded. I'd always managed to out-think and out-maneuver them.

Until I'd met these four.

Okay, so it was more like 'these two', seeing as how Jax and Pedro were lying unconscious at my feet, but still. Somehow, they'd managed to counter my every move before I could make it. I tightened my grip on the crutch and made a firm decision that it was going to stop. Right here and now.

I leveled my best Nightwing glare at them. It was, paradoxically, not as strong as my cop glares. Nightwing had the advantage, after all, of a suit and a face-mask that covered his eyes. As a cop, though, I had a uniform that most criminals didn't quite respect (except insomuch as it represented an arrest they didn't want) and an unprotected face. Of _course_ the cop glare was worse. I was literally trying to stop criminals in their tracks with it.

This time, I was more concerned with intimidating them than with stopping them. (Although stopping them would have been nice, too.) I had to show that I wasn't too bothered by what they were doing, that my alleged 'weak spot' wasn't as weak as they believed.

"So. He's a hostage. Any cop would hesitate if you directly threaten the life of a hostage." That is, any decent cop would. I had my doubts about some in my precinct. However, I still lacked the hard evidence I needed to bring them to justice, and mentioning it would only muddy the issues at hand.

"Ah, but when the hostage is your...little brother, I believe he is?" Eddington's pale blue eyes glittered. "What then? What do you do?"

_Start making plans for your immediate destruction._ I smirked at him, knowing the bruises on my face didn't make it a pretty picture. "Wait. You... you thought he was my _brother?_ Oh, sheesh. Buddy, are you ever barking up the wrong tree. He just hangs out with me from time to time."

He stared at me for a long moment. I met his gaze steadily, determinedly not looking at Tim, fully aware that it was all hanging on my acting abilities right now.

In the background, I could hear Tim gasping for breath.

Finally Eddington gave a slight nod. "Say I believe you. Say I believe that this kid doesn't mean much to you." His lips curled in a way that wasn't at all friendly. "Does that mean that you won't care if I kill him?"

Anger flared, deep inside me, at how callously he had delivered that suggestion. I swallowed it with difficulty. "Maybe. Or maybe it means that he really _is_ my little brother and all this is just a ruse to confuse you. And I _will_ kill you if you do it." I delivered the threat without compunction, because in this, I wasn't lying. I let the good side of my mouth curl up slightly. "Are you willing to take that risk?"

He looked me up and down, his gaze lingering on the crutch and the braces around my bad leg and hand. His eyes rose to met mine and one eyebrow raised. "Not much of a risk, is it?"

I snorted and lifted my chin. Defiant to the end, that's me. "Are you sure? I'm the ranking law enforcement officer here, pal. Tick me off and I'll call down snipers on your head quicker than you can blink." I gave him a level stare. "Are you _sure_ these windows are bullet-proof?"

I was bluffing, of course. But there was an element of truth in it. If Gotham's new police commissioner was any good, I was willing to bet he'd have SWAT outside, with snipers stationed on the surrounding buildings. The only problem was that they'd probably no idea where the gunmen _were_...and thus they'd have no idea where to aim. Me, I was just hoping that said gunmen had watched plenty of TV.

Eddington hesitated, and shared a look with Smokes...who kept the knife firmly pressed to Tim's throat, damn him. Finally, they seemed to come to a decision, and Smokes dragged Tim further away from the windows. Not that Tim made it easy for him, but he managed.

I almost laughed. _Almost_. Looks like I was making two someone's very uncomfortable with my threat. Well, good. About time something went my way.

I stared at Eddington, knowing my eyes would be showing a little of my glee through the swelling. "Feeling a little self-conscious?" I taunted.

I had to give him credit, he met my gaze. "Just considering your advice," he retorted coolly.

"Then here's another piece: make the hostages comfortable. Especially if you want me to put in a nice word for you with the judge when you're sentenced."

Smokes gave me a confident smirk and finally spoke. "Who says we'll be sentenced?" He jerked Tim's head to the side so he could see me clearly. "We ain't never going to no jail. Especially if we don't leave no witnesses."

I tightened my grip on the crutch and gave him the same flat stare I'd given Eddington earlier. "It's a only matter of time before you get caught." Especially with Tim and me in the room, working together as a team. "And when you do, they'll call me up to the stand, and they'll ask me how you treated us." I gave them a glimpse of the Grayson Special #5, aka my I-can-take-you-down-permanently smile. "And I'll tell them. In detail."

They exchanged a long look.

Then Smokes eased his grip around Tim's throat. A little. Enough for Tim to theatrically gasp for air, at least.

It was also enough for me to glance Tim's way and slightly lift an eyebrow. _'Are you okay?'_

Tim's lips quirked. _'Never better.'_ Even though Smokes had Tim's legs ostensibly pinned with his own body, the kid was able to subtly move his hips enough to show to my trained eyes that he could free his legs if he needed to.

I frowned, so as not to alert Eddington and Smokes to what I'd seen. I also made a show of leaning my poor abused body against the nearby bed. Actually, to be honest, it wasn't that much of a show. My bad leg really did need the rest if I wanted to do anything major with it later – like fight. Which I was pretty sure was going to happen, no matter how we played this.

Leslie was probably going to yell at me when this was all over.

Eddington smirked a little, his sharp eyes missing nothing. "Feeling a little under the weather, are we?"

I smirked right back. First rule of thumb when dealing with clever bad guys: always reply in kind if at all possible. Second rule of thumb was to conceal exactly how much it hurt you to do so. It was okay if you _wanted_ to show it, but not okay if they picked up on it themselves. And if they _did_ pick up on it, downplay it, so that they wouldn't know that you wanted them to know.

Yes, it was complicated. That was kind of the point.

Habit made me glance over at Tim again, and I couldn't help noticing the slight shake in Smokes' hands. It was barely discernable unless you knew where to look. My smirk widened. "I bet I'm feelin' better than Charlie over there. Needs a hit about now, eh?" It was a tactical drop of not just the name, but also my knowledge of the habit. See, Batman had suspected he was smoking more than just run-of-the-mill cigarettes, and I wanted to know what I was dealing with.

"How do ya know 'bout that?" Smokes - Charlie - demanded, just as Eddington ordered him to shut up.

Pay-dirt. I rolled my eyes and leaned a little more against the bed, playing the nonchalant card to the hilt. "Oh, please. You reek so much I could smell you from a mile away—" his arms twitched and Tim choked and I quickly amended, "—okay, so its more like twenty yards. But still. I know that smell intimately." I deliberately softened my smile. "And besides, I know what's like, yeah? The hunger inside and the ache..."

"What are you saying?" Eddington demanded. "You've smoked MJ too?"

Bingo. MJ aka Mary Jane aka cannabis – marijuana. "You can't have a habit and be a police officer." I said mildly. It was the simple truth. That sort of thing got drummed out of recruits by eight-months at the Academy. But if they wanted to infer from _that_ that I'd had a habit at one time...well, that was up to them.

Eddington looked at me for a long moment, his pale blue eyes thoughtful.

The seconds stretched out.

I almost dared not to breathe.

Smokes stayed still. Even Tim seemed to sense this was an important moment.

Finally, Eddington spoke: "I don't believe you."

_'Sh*t.'_ I kept my face calm and shrugged. "Up to you. Can't lead a horse to water and all that jazz."

He shook his head. "Not that. I've never _heard_ of you. A druggie-turned-copper makes waves. _Lots_ of waves. And I've never heard any. So it never happened."

I smiled. Smile number 20: innocence personified. "Who said the drug thing happened in Blüdhaven, anyway? I wasn't always in this town, ya know."

"Where, and what?"

"NYC, and it was smack. Took two _long_ weeks for withdrawal." Actually, it took _Roy_ two weeks, but who was counting? Or naming names?

Eddington considered for another eternity. "Say I believe you," he said finally. "What then? I snitch on you to the authorities?"

I shrugged as easily as I could – as if the thought didn't scare me – and then did my best to look casually menacing. "To do that, you have to get out of here. Alive. And to do _that_, you have to get through _me_."

He looked me up and down again, much like he had before. "Not much of a problem." He snapped his fingers with his free hand. "Come on, Smokes. I think we've dallied here enough." Keeping his gun on me, he started to back towards the door. With Tim.

Okaaay. Time for Plan B. (Or were we up to C by now?)

Thinking quickly, I leaned over and nudged the body of Jax on the floor with my crutch. Still out cold. I must've hit them a bit harder than I'd thought. "What about these two? Just gonna leave them here? With me?"

The British gunman smiled wolvishly. "Why not? I'll lock you in with them. Won't that be a pleasant surprise for them to wake up to?"

This was getting worse and worse. "I thought you needed them for the hostages in the lobby."

"Already taken care of," he said, waving his hand dismissively. "You coming, Smokes?"

Uh-oh. My thoughts immediately went to Roy and Donna – whom I'd _sent_ to the lobby – before I forced myself to focus back here again.

"Yep. I'm'a comin'" Smokes dragged Tim across the room. Not that Tim made it easy, cursing him the entire way and making all sorts of scuff marks on the carpet. Not that it helped. Smokes outweighed him by about fifty pounds by my estimate, and I was willing to bet it was mostly muscle. To get free, Tim needed the elements of distraction and surprise – both of which I would have to help provide.

I tensed. They were about five yards away from the doorway now. I _had_ to find some way to stop them. There was no way that they were hauling Tim away without me. Allowing them to do that would be tantamount to signing Tim's death sentence. I've already been to too many funerals. I'm damned well not attending Tim's.

"And what about Diablo?" I asked, firmly suppressing any sign of desperation threatening to come out in my voice.

Finally, they stopped. "What about Diablo?" Eddington asked, a note of suspicion in his voice. No doubt wondering where I was going with this.

"I'm guessing that your presence here is connected to his being in this hospital. But you do realize that he's in a secure area, right?" I paused. "You'll need my help with that." Okay, so I was reaching, _really_ reaching, for a way to stay with Tim.

They froze.

I barely suppressed my urge to roll my eyes. Ding-bats. They'd planned the entire siege, but they hadn't realized what they'd need to do to get to Diablo? _Idiots_. Things like that were why the prison populations kept increasing. I decided to help them out. A little. "I'm the one with the badge and the authority. _And_ I'm the one who put him here in the first place. He's here on my say-so. You're going to need _me_ to get him out." Actually, to be honest, I strongly doubted that the guards up there would be willing to listen to me – especially since I wasn't exactly wearing a badge – but it gave me an excuse to be near Tim. Right now, that was all that mattered in my book.

The two exchanged a long look. Eddington raised an eyebrow. Smokes nodded slightly.

Then Eddington turned back to me, looking for all the world like he was faintly amused by something. "You're _that_ eager to see him again?"

I shook my head and decided to dole out a little more truth. "Hell, no. Given a choice, I'd rather be anywhere else." Then I smiled. "I just don't want to be _here_ when these two wake up."

He chuckled. "Alright. Fine. You get your wish, Grayson. You're coming with us. And so's the kid...for insurance."

Since Smokes had Tim, it was Eddington who directed me away from the bed and out of the room. He had the sense, though, not to grab hold of me, and instead simply pointed at me with his gun. Efficient man.

On the one hand, I was quite happy for them to direct me out of the room. I hadn't lied to Eddington. I really didn't have any desire to be near Jax and Pedro when they woke up. Actually, I wouldn't have liked to be near them period, once they realised that they'd been left behind – especially in a building with a bomb in it.

On the other hand, walking with the crutch by myself? Not so fun. It went pretty much like it had the last time I'd tried it, but without the falling over part. And that was only because I knew what was coming, and managed to catch myself before I face-planted. Again.

Still, it was pretty clear to everyone – even me – that my body wasn't really up to walking. _Duh_.

It also meant that Eddington was forced to take up the role that Tim had occupied earlier, that of human crutch. I wasn't complaining. To be honest, I made it obvious that I was more focused on walking. My earlier...fall...had bruised a few more body parts than I liked to admit, and I was starting to feel it. My head was still sore, both from hitting the floor and from being pistol-whipped earlier. And my bad leg...hated me, I swear. I really shouldn't have been walking. Period. But, mind over matter, and all that.

Bruce would be so proud.

And Leslie...was definitely going to yell at me for this.

Still, it was...interesting, having Eddington haul me around. If 'interesting' was the right word for it, considering that he was helping me at the same time as he was holding me hostage. That probably explained the awkwardness. And my highly developed awareness of the gun he had pressed against my side the entire time.

Ah, well. Couldn't have everything.

I judged we were far enough away from our starting point when we stopped before the elevators. Longest walk of my _life_. I was _so_ not looking forward to being in a confined space with everyone.

It was there that the gun fell away from my side to point towards the floor, and Eddington shifted my weight a little – probably preparing to let me lean against the wall while he called for the elevator.

Then the lights went out.

At long last, something was going right. The administrators had finally noticed what was going on and triggered the lock-down procedures. At any moment now, the generators would kick in, the lights would come back up, and the hospital would run on back-up power for however long this hostage situation lasted. It was risky, especially if they had patients still in intensive care, but what an opportunity!

Naturally, I took full advantage.

I immediately grabbed for the gun in Eddington's hand, forcing it out of his grip. In the same movement, I twisted on my good leg, moved out of his reach, and pivoted around so that my back was against the wall instead of facing it.

And, yeah, okay, so I could've thought things through a little more. Holding a gun with my left hand in a brace wasn't my brightest idea. But I managed. Police training had a lot to do with it. I felt the fingers of my good hand curl automatically around the gun and fit into place, and my body shifted to brace against the anticipated recoil. A part of me savoured the feel of the cool metal against my flesh.

It was...reassuring, in some ways.

Darned training.

By the time the lights flickered back on to half-strength, thanks to the back-up generators, my back might have been to the wall, but it was simply something for me to lean against. More to the point, I had the gun aimed squarely between Eddington's eyes. There wasn't much of a gap between his face and the end of the barrel.

Eddington looked at the gun, almost crossing his eyes to do so, and blinked. Very slowly. "Well. This is a surprise."

I smiled. "I'm full of surprises. Let Tim go."

Another slow blink. "Is that his name?"

I paused to think, about whether I'd mentioned Tim's name aloud before. Then I shrugged. "Does it matter? Let. Him. Go."

Eddington raised one eyebrow and smiled that small smile of his, almost bemused. He was obviously completely unfazed at having his own gun aimed at him at close quarters. It reminded me abruptly that these four had a history of working under the Joker, and it made me wonder how many times it had happened to him before. His words confirmed my suspicion. "And is this supposed to scare me?" he asked calmly.

I grinned at him wolvishly. "Well, I can guarantee that I won't miss." Not that I had any intention of firing, but I knew my marksmanship scores...

He matched the grin, and I had a sudden feeling, like the two of us were involved in a strange game of symbolic poker, and he'd just called my bluff. "And I can guarantee that before you can fire, your brother's throat will be slit."

I narrowed my eyes. "Never bring a knife to a gunfight."

He smirked. "And never waste time talking when action will do."

As if in slow motion, I looked over, and saw the edge of the blade sinking into Tim's soft neck...saw red welling beneath it, running in a crimson trail down silver and flesh...

The tension in the room spiked, and I suddenly couldn't breathe. I _knew_ they would do it. I _knew_ they would take perverse pleasure in killing Tim, in front of me, here and now, just to _see_ my pain and rage. They would do it, unless..._unless_...

And I knew instantly what I had to do.

With my eyes fixed on the Brit, I straightened and raised my chin. I forced myself to ignore everyone else in the room, even Tim. Instinct told me that _Eddington_ was the man I had to worry about. A rushing noise filled my ears, drowning out all other sounds in the room, even Tim's shouted denial, but it could not drown out the sudden calmness in my mind. Eyes still locked with his, I tightened my grip on the purloined gun.

Inside my head, the ticking clock fell silent.

* * *

Cliffie, much? TBC...

_**Next/Teaser: **_The mousetrap snaps shut...


	8. Bargaining

_**Summary:**_ A trap snaps shut and a deal is made.  
_**Note:**_ Some blood in this. If it squicks you, just skip that part. I don't think its too bad, but then I wrote it, so what do I know? *shrug* Also, apologies for how long this one took. RL well and truly thumped me. Its taken a while for me to get back into the writing rhythm again.

* * *

**CALL OF DUTY  
Obstacle Course**

_**8. Bargaining**_

* * *

Despite what many cop shows have depicted, surrendering to some idiot with a gun was _never _a good idea. Yeah, sure, in the _shows_, the good guy usually managed to take them all down with 'nary a scratch, but that was because there was a writer behind the scenes literally controlling everything.

In real life, that kind of stupidity got cops _killed_. The stats weren't pretty.

In my case, however, surrendering wasn't exactly an option; it was more like a necessity. I was on crutches with my leg burning up beneath me, I could barely stand much less hold the gun, and the bad guys had a knife _in_ Tim's throat. To be blunt, there were extremely good odds that Tim's throat would be slit before I managed to figure out how to get a shot off. And I might be many things, but that much of a risk-taker, I'm not.

I lowered the gun.

Actually, I didn't so much lower it as flip the safety on and drop it on the ground. And then I swear I only blinked, or maybe not even that, and Eddington had somehow crossed the room in a whirl of motion. Somehow, his forearm was already pressing on my throat and his body was pushing me back into the wall. The message was clear: _cease and desist_.

I let him push me, because it was either that or break something – most likely the crutch, knowing my luck. In fact, I made a show of pressing myself even further into the wall, as far away from that arm as I could get. Even so, I refused to give in completely and met his gaze defiantly, my mouth a thin line. And the entire time, all I could think about was _Tim_. I could hear him fighting and I swear I could smell the _blood_.

Eddington tilted his head slightly as he met my gaze. "Why do you fight us?" he asked me, his voice curious. "You hurt yourself, you threaten the kid's life, and we have the greater firepower. You must know resistance is futile."

Despite everything, I found myself swallowing back a snort – obviously one of us had been watching too much Star Trek – and kept up my defiant stare. "What was I supposed to do?" I snapped back, not having to work hard to pretend I was barely hanging on to my anger. I wasn't that angry, not yet, but I figured that their experience with the Joker would give them a wholesome respect for temper tantrums. At this point, getting them a little bit off-balance _had_ to be good. "Just _give _my little brother to you? My _family_ doesn't work that way."

The gamble paid off.

This close, I could see something that looked like respect flicker in the Englishman's eyes. Or maybe it was a trick of the light, or my imagination. It was hard to tell. Either way, he backed off a little, and the pressure of the arm on my throat eased. Slightly.

Still, it was enough that I decided I could _finally_ risk a look over at Tim. But there was really only enough time enough to see flashes of motion. And _blood_. Plenty of blood.

I clenched my good hand into a fist and used the pain to center myself. "You _have_ to let me help him."

Eddington just stared at me, his eyes disconcertingly empty of emotion once more. "Give me a reason why I should let you."

"If you don't, and he dies...all previous deals are off." I hadn't been joking. when I'd earlier thought about what I'd do to them if Tim died. If that ever came to pass... _No_. That just didn't bear thinking about. I let just a fraction of what I was feeling show on my face .

The two of us locked eyes for a long moment. He stared at me, I stared at him. Neither of us were backing down.

We even blinked at the same time. And then we kept right on staring at each other.

And we both spoke at the same.

"If I do this—"  
"No promises but—"

Much more of this, and I'd start getting nervous.

He tilted his head to the side and seemed to consider something. The moment seemed to drag on. And _on_. It took all I had to stay still and leave the proverbial ball in his court.

At the limits of my perception, I saw his mouth finally quirk in that damned small smile of his. Still staring at me, he called over his shoulder, "Smokes?"

"Yeah?"

"Do stop playing and let the kid go."

"But—"

"Just do it."

It took all my self-control to keep my eyes on Eddington, reinforcing the unspoken quasi-deal we'd just worked out between us. I had the sense that the moment I looked away, the precarious house of cards I'd built would all crash down around me – and I wouldn't be the only casualty. What worried me was that I heard Smokes moving around; his smoker's cough was distinctive and hard to miss. But Tim...

I could only hear one person's movements, and I'd lay a year's wages that that person was Smokes, not Tim.

Finally Eddington nodded at me, and at long last released me from the wall.

Luckily for me, it was less than a step from the wall to where Tim was lying. I made that in a quasi-graceful semi-hop, and from there it was a half-controlled fall to the floor. It was only when I was on the ground, with my bad leg stretched one way, the crutch another – and no idea how I was going to get up again – that I turned my attention to my brother.

It wasn't pretty. Yeah, I'd thought that before...but it bore repeating.

All I could really tell was that he was bleeding. And that the knife had nicked an artery. The blood was too bright, too fresh...too much. At least he wasn't spraying the walls with it; some comfort there. So I needed to stop it...oh, like, five minutes ago.

A quick hunt through my pockets showed that the only thing that looked remotely useful was a handkerchief of dubious origin, and of even more dubious ability to soak up fluids. I used it anyway. Tim certainly wasn't going to complain. He was unconscious – no doubt from shock and trauma, not to mention the goose-egg that was slowly forming on his temple. He didn't wake as I pressed down as hard as I could manage on the wound in his neck with my good hand. That wasn't a good sign. I knew from personal experience just how painful treating a neck wound could be.

I wasn't sure how long it took for the bleeding to stop. All time seemed to freeze, as I pressed that piece of cloth to his neck. I only knew that it seemed both too long and too short. Everything vanished from my awareness but my fingers, the cut, and the blood that continually seeped through it all.

After a while, I'm still not sure how long, I could see what I was looking at; it was definitely a gash, not a cut. The furrow in Tim's neck wound went about a quarter of the way around his neck, and was about one-and-a-half finger's wide. Not too deep, or I'd have had even more blood to deal with. But it was obvious it had been made by a knife, and with quite some force behind it.

All too aware of how limited my resources were, I tied the handkerchief as tightly as I dared around Tim's neck when I judged the bleeding had slowed sufficiently. It was far from ideal, especially considering how bloadsoaked it already was, but it wasn't like I had anything else to use, and I really doubted that my two captors would give me anything else.

Unfortunately it didn't very long for reality to intrude once again – or maybe it just felt that way. It seemed that I'd only just finished tying off the handkerchief-bandage when I felt something poke my ear. I looked up, and found myself staring right down the barrel of Eddington's gun.

Not good. _So_ not good.

Then again, that sort of threat was kinda getting _old_. While I definitely appreciated the immediacy of the life-and-death thing, and had a clear idea of how thin the ice was on which I was skating, I _really_ didn't need the constant reminders.

I pushed down the flare of angry-annoyance, and focused on the more immediate issues: the gun, the hostage-thing, and Tim. Not necessarily in that order. I let my gaze flicker between the gun and Tim, and felt the beginnings of one crazy plan begin to percolate at the back of my brain. Crazy enough that it might just _work_.

I didn't let myself think about it too much. Instead I turned my gaze back to Eddington and let a bit of the desperate fear I felt for Tim bleed into my expression. "If I go with you... I can't just leave him here in the middle of the corridor. At least let me take him to a room," I said, resolutely _not_ begging. I was _not_ going to stoop to that level to get what I wanted.

The Brit looked at me, then Tim, and then shrugged even as he his gun swivelled smoothly to point at Tim's head. "Or, you know, I could just shoot him, right here and now. Less baggage to carry."

Okay, so maybe I _was_ willing to go that far. I gritted my teeth and forced out the word. "Please."

Eddington grinned at me. "There, see? Now how hard was that? Perhaps we _can_ come to some...arrangement." He jerked his head at his companion. "Go an' pick him up, Smo."

Smokes walked over, and looked down at Tim for a long moment. When he looked up, he had a smirk on his face, like the cat who got the cream – or thought he did. "I gots an idea. Why don't we put 'im in da room we found 'im in?"

Eddington just smiled. "Perfect."

Internally I was leaping for joy – that was the same room I'd left Leslie in, which meant it would hopefully a shortcut to Tim getting the medical attention he so desperately needed. _This_ was exactly why I'd asked Leslie to be our ace-in-the-hole, to stay in that room so that we'd have a known place to retreat to in case either of us needed of first aid in a hurry.

It was a fallback plan I'd hoped never to have to use – especially not for Tim – but had made anyway.

Here was hoping Leslie was still there, and hadn't ran off on me.

I wasn't sure what was worse, seeing Smokes pick up Tim like he weighed nothing, or having to watch my brother being carted around like a sack of potatoes slung over his shoulder. Or an afterthought. But at least he wasn't bleeding out all over the floor. Small consolation – and yes, I was taking whatever comfort I could, where I could.

It made having to be helped to my own feet much easier to bear. I gave Eddington a brief nod of thanks.

The man just smiled at me, a kind of shark-toothed smile without any humor. It didn't exactly bode well for my future.

I shoved down my unease and trudged (okay, limped, badly) behind Smokes and Tim towards Leslie's lounge. As Alfred would say, I'd made my bed, and now I had to lie in it.

It didn't take us long. Or maybe it just seemd that way, because I was focusing on Tim's neck, and the way the blood was slowly soaking through my makeshift bandage. Better that, than thinking about the pain of using my bad leg.

Leslie was _so_ going to yell at me.

I told myself that was why I drew away from Eddington and stayed by the door when we reached Leslie's lounge – that the less I walked, the better. In truth, it had more to do with my serious misgivings about what I was about to do, but I had no real way of backing out now, especially with Tim out of the picture. Besides, the doorframe gave me something to lean against, while both Eddington and Smokes proceeded inside.

And if I had thought seeing Smokes carry Tim around like so much dead-weight was bad, well, that was nothing compared to seeing him just sling my brother onto the floor. I winced at the sight and the sound. I could only hope that Tim hadn't broken anything in that landing, and also be grateful he was still unconscious.

Eddington turned back to face me, his eyes darkened by...something. In the dim light of the lounge, it was hard to tell anything. "I held up my part of the arrangement," he said quietly. "It's time to pay up."

I nodded. Even though we hadn't said it out loud, I knew exactly what bargain we had struck – and what he wanted me to do. More to the point, I knew that I could no longer delay it. My only hope was that they would be nice about this part.

Yeah. Right. After all the trouble we'd caused them, I didn't have any actual hope for that.

I inhaled deeply, let it go, and forced myself not to look for Leslie. I knew I wouldn't see her, even if she was still here. With one final glance at Tim, I turned to the others. _Live for me, my brother._

I nodded. "I'm ready."

Actually, I wasn't ready, but I had to be. I'd made this deal, and now I had to see it through. Which was why I bit my lip but managed to stay quiet as Smokes stepped up, ripped the brace off my broken hand and the splints off my fingers, and cuffed my hands in front of me.

It _hurt_. It hurt almost as bad as breaking the damn thing.

By the time he was done, I was breathing through the pain and mentally reviewing all the curses I knew. On the other hand, biting my lip had made me feel the cut at the corner from where Smokes had pistol-whipped me earlier. One hell of a way to remind myself of what was at stake: the lives of everyone in the hospital.

Yeah. In that light, a little pain was nothing. I made myself met Eddington's gaze calmly. "Let's go."

He snorted and pushed past me into the hallway. Then he turned back to face me with a taunting look. "Well, come on then. If you can."

Taking that first step was as much an adventure as anything that had happened before. With my hands cuffed together, I couldn't exactly use the crutch – Smokes was probably carrying it, but I wasn't sure – and nor was I obviously allowed to lean on anyone anymore. My next few steps, which took me out into hallway proper, told me precisely how much I'd been fooling myself when I'd thought that I could do this by myself.

It told me that I was _the biggest fool ever_. And right now I was paying the price. In spades.

By the time all of us were out into the hallway, I could already feel myself slowing down. Becoming a liability. On the other hand, I also felt justifiably proud that I'd made it this far, by myself, on a leg that I wasn't supposed to be using. At all.

I think maybe that was why they did it. I was slowing them down. And obviously, we – they – had places to be.

All I knew, was that I'd managed a grand total of four steps, just enough to get myself a little bit down the hallway, before I felt sharp pain and knew no more.

* * *

_**Interlude:  
Bruce I**_

There was a deep sense of satisfaction in closing a deal in the boardroom. It was like closing handcuffs around a perp's wrists after an hour-long chase; it was solving one of Riddler's puzzles; it was one-upping the Joker at his own game; it was getting his own way against Alfred; it was—

The knocking on the door interrupted him, disrupting his flow of thought. If there was one thing he _hated_, it was being disturbed as he was about to close a deal.

And Lucius knew that, knew too what stage he'd be at in the negotiations. Which meant...

_No. Stop it! Don't go there!_

He forcibly calmed himself and managed to turn to the door with no more than a frown. Inside was a different matter entirely. "What is it?" he asked, proud of how level he'd kept his voice.

"Call in your office, sir. I'll take over here."

Seeing as only Alfred had permission to interrupt his board meetings, Bruce felt fairly justified in feeling his heart-rate rise. Outwardly, though, he only nodded and gathered his papers into a pile. Busy-work, really, while his mind raced, trying to work out where each of his kids were and their relative degree of safety.

He was fairly sure he said goodbye to the team in the boardroom – Alfred-bred manners took a lot to dislodge – but it also something that, when asked later, he'd have no memory of doing. His memory sort of skipped ahead, to finding himself in his office and picking up the phone, with the terrible _FearTerrorPain_ pounding through his body. Only years of mental discipline kept his voice anywhere near level. "Alfred?"

"Sir. Have you seen the television this morning?"

He let out a breath he wasn't aware he'd been holding. And jabbed the button for his office's stereo system and TV to activate before he could stop himself. "No," he said quietly. "Had a boardroom thing. What am I looking for?"

"Any channel will do, most likely. Gotham General Hospital is under siege."

He stared at the footage on the screens without really processing it. _Dick. My son. Where are you in that?_ He cleared his throat. "What—what are we looking at?"

"At the moment?"

He nodded. Closed his eyes and tried to clear his mind, and focus his rampant emotions. "Threat assessment level." And weren't those the three hardest words he'd ever had to say?

"Negotiators are the scene, but so far no-one's talking. Snipers are the roof, with orders to shoot if they can locate a target. Oracle has control of the cameras, and is feeding them selected footage." He cleared his throat softly. "Oracle hasn't told them, but we suspect there may already be casualties."

"How many?"

"Most likely those waiting in the emergency and lobby areas. We have no confirmation on any more." Alfred paused to breathe, knowing what he had to say, but not liking it. "Also, while the GPD aren't sure, both Oracle and I think the gunmen are linked to Diablo."

His mind sharpened. He could make the logic jump too. "The cartels."

"Most likely."

All of a sudden the thrills of boardroom wheeling-and-dealing were insignificant. This was _his son_. "I'm on my way."

* * *

TBC

_**Teaser/Next:**_ Up close and personal with the bomb...

_Fair warning. This chapter departs from the regular scheduled programming _–_ otherwise known as what passes for my outline. What comes next is as much your guess as mine..._


	9. Negotiator

_**Chap. Summary:**_ How to talk down a bomber/gunman in 12 twelve steps... or less.  
_**Notes:**_ One of my pet hates in a story is talking heads. And here I am doing it yet again. Ah well...  
_**Warnings:**_ Some things said could be... a little intense. So, um, yeah. Remember that this _is_ a negotiation. Don't be hating the poor author.

* * *

**CALL OF DUTY  
Obstacle Course**

_**9. Negotiator**_

* * *

I woke up slowly enough that it took a while for both the memories to surface and for me to become fully aware of my body. Long enough that I had no real idea of how much time had passed. Lucid enough that, the moment I became aware of how in danger I was really in, I was also aware enough to know that I needed to pretend to still be unconscious. It wasn't that hard to make it seem like I'd only stirred for a moment before falling asleep again.

_"Is it safe?"_

_"Yeah. He's asleep again."_

The voices were so quiet and distant that I could barely hear them, let alone distinguish one from another.

_"Are ya sure 'bout dis?"_

_"What choice do we have? You know what will happen if we don't."_

I waited for the voices to continue – some more information about what they were so afraid of would be nice – but nothing came. No voices, no footsteps. Nothing.

Finally I heard a muted beeping.

_"Damn. The phone."_

_"A text from _them_?"_

_"Yeah."_

_"An'?"_

_"...We've got a problem. Lobby floor."_

_"You stay an' I'll go?"_

_"It's for the best."_

A set of footsteps retreated. I waited a few minutes, but that was it. _Okaaaay._ That seemed as good a moment as any to "wake up".

One of the flaws of "pretending" to be asleep was that there actually wasn't much pretend about it. To carry it off successfully, I had to shove my awareness of my body down... _way_ down. Far enough down that my body was, literally, asleep, while the mind was... not. There were _reasons_ I didn't use this technique often.

One the other hand, one of the benefits of being a Son of the Bat was that I'd had the (dubious) pleasure of waking up from various stages of unconsciousness enough times to have the four-stage process memorized. First I rolled my head around a bit, next my hands twitched, and then I gasped in a breath as my eyes fluttered open.

Of course, actually getting my eyes open was an interesting challenge. Each eyelid seemed to weigh about a ton, and I couldn't get them open very far. Maybe it was that last hit to the head, or maybe my face had swollen even more from being pistol-whipped. Either way, I had a feeling that the bruises tomorrow were going to be interesting.

Instinctively, I tried to reach to reach up to help, to maybe unglue my eyes or something. Not being fully awake, I'm still not sure what I was planning. But the realization that I couldn't move my hands brought me to full-body awareness like not much else could.

Full-body awareness had never so much _fun_. It kind of hit me like slamming into a wall – at high speed. _This is going to be messy. _My hands were cuffed in front of me, just above my head to some of pipe. I'd actually been resting my head in the quasi-cradle that my arms created. My legs were stretched out in front of me, and I was reclining back against... something. Something round... like a barrel, or large pipe. It was also ticking. _Definitely messy_.

It was all rather ingenious, really, as I quickly discovered. The pipe-thing I was cuffed to was horizontal all the way, and the cuffs just kind of scraped along every time I tried to get leverage to grip the thing. And with my hands above my head and at the angle I was leaning back at, I'd have to pull on the cuffs to move myself or lean forward, which would make the cuffs cut into my wrists. And that was something I wanted to save for more desperate circumstances than simply changing positions, especially since I had the feeling I'd be here for a while.

Yeah. Someone had definitely known what they were doing when they'd put me here.

A noise beside me brought my attention back to my surroundings. Eddington. He knelt down beside me, a very satisfied look on his face. "Comfortable?"

The retort was out before I could stop it. "Sure. Looks like a five star hotel, thanks." Actually, it looked more like I was in some sort of generator room. Joy.

His lips quirked, and he shrugged. "You were easier to transport this way."

I looked down at myself, and gauged how well I was restrained versus how well I was feeling. It didn't take me long to decide that I didn't mind the not walking part. "I guess I would have been," I admitted.

He blinked at me. No doubt not expecting me to agree – or not to say it aloud. He'd probably thought I'd object a lot more loudly to the not being able to move part. And, yeah, while that was an obstacle I'd have to overcome at some point, right now it wasn't that much of a problem.

Speaking of problems, I decided to play 'ignorant' and looked around a little obviously. "Hey, where's your friend?"

"Oh, Smokes? He had something to take care of for me." He said it so carelessly, that I almost missed the significance. That "something to take care of"? It was no doubt related to the phone call I'd overheard earlier – something about a mysterious "them" and "something in the lobby". I tried to believe that it meant Roy and Donna were doing their usual mischief, but I wasn't that hopeful.

It'd been that kind of day.

All I really could do was nod and outwardly look like it meant nothing to me. Especially since Eddington looked like he was desperately trying to cover something up. It was the first crack in his facade I'd seen since this whole business had started.

My suspicions about that crack were only confirmed when he got up with obvious nonchalance and walked to the only window in the room. He peered around the edge of the drawn blinds, careful to move or touch the blinds themselves. Obviously my earlier warning/threat about snipers had struck home. And the entire time, that damned gun of his never stopped pointing in my direction. Did he have a preternatural sense of aim, or something?

Which made it a perfect time as any to bring up something that had been worrying away at the back of my mind for a while. At least, I didn't see the harm. If he didn't listen, he didn't listen; but if he did listen, then he might just change his plans enough for me to be able to disrupt them even more. "On the topic of things to take care of, you do realize that I can't get you to Diablo without my badge, don't you?"

"What?" He jerked back around to face me. And his gun actually stopped pointing at my heart. Finally.

_Small words, Grayson._ I sighed mentally and tried again, with half-an-eye on that gun. "He's on a secure floor with guards. They won't recognize me as an officer without a badge." And let's not even go into the whole tied-up thing.

Eddington blinked. And shifted his gun back towards me. Damn. "That's a stupid rule."

"Hey, I don't make the rules. I just have to follow them." Occasionally.

"So where's this 'badge' then?"

"Probably at home," I said truthfully. Honestly, why lie about _this_?

"At _home_?"

"Yeah. I'm on _sick leave_, man. Have been for a few weeks now, and probably will be for a few weeks more." And wasn't that a kick in the shins to actually admit it out loud? It was the first time I'd actually said the words, not that I'd tell him that. "Didn't think I'd need my badge for a while," I shrugged. "What, don't tell me you thought the whole crutches and brace thing were just for _show_?"

He blinked again, sighed, stopped, and seemed to think. "So. We'll just have to find another way to get what we want." Never let it be said the man wasn't persistent. In fact, I was starting to wonder what it took to _make_ him _give up_. Or make him stop aiming that damned gun at me. Either option was acceptable at this point.

Luckily for both of us, I didn't give up very easily either. I shifted awkwardly, trying to find a more comfortable position; I had a feeling that this was going to take a while. "So just for the sake of curiosity, what is it you want anyway?"

He left the window and stood in front of me. He was also, incidentally, standing between me and the only door. "I'd've thought that was self-explanatory."

At least I could watch the exit now without being too obvious– or as best I could, considering my arms were kind of in the road. "Humor me."

He shrugged almost carelessly. "I want Diablo free, as a favor to a... friend, you might say. Then passage to a place of my choosing. And as you're my ticket to both of those, you'll be coming with me."

"Nice to know I'm appreciated," I drawled, using bravado and sarcasm to hide my instinctive fear at his words. Because I knew exactly what he meant. With his connections to the Bogota cartels and all the things he'd let slip, it meant that someone in the cartel had apparently put a price on my head for some reason. And at the moment, the contract was most likely "preferably alive," a rather small point in my favor, because that could quite easily change.

But there was really nothing I could do about that now, except push that information to the back of my mind. I couldn't even let it interfere in these quasi-negotiations I was working on here, lest I let my personal desires get in the way of all those lives at stake. It was really only pure luck that saving the hospital meant I had a good chance of saving my own life. If I could get rid of the contract at the same time, well, that'd just be a bonus.

Eddington sighed, and for the second time I saw conflict in his eyes. I'd've felt like cheering, if the situation hadn't been so serious. "For the record, I didn't want to do it this way."

I took a chance, hoping that this time his openness would last long enough to forge a connection I could work with. "Hypothetically, then. How would _you_ have done it?"

He shrugged. "Not like this," he answered, if a little vaguely. "This... is not my way." He straightened his shoulders then, and I _saw_ the tension and conflict depart from him as if they'd never been there in the first place. "But one thing I am not is a quitter."

I just barely held back the eye-rolling. I'd met that "I-won't-quit" type before – hell, I'd been virtually raised by that type – and personally, I didn't care to negotiate with them. I shifted the cuffs down a little so I could see him better. "So if you were walking and suddenly there was a landslip, you'd go over the cliff just because it was on your route now?"

"No!"

"So why go through with this, if it's not what you want?"

"You don't understand."

I shrugged. "So make me. _Help me_ understand."

"I—What?"

Fully aware of the gamble I was taking, I gave him a lopsided smile – mainly because I could really only move one side of my mouth. "If you can convince me that this is the right thing to do – and I mean that '_if_,' by the way – I won't stop you pulling the trigger and blowing up the hospital."

"You mean that?"

"Yep. Scouts honor." Of course, I was never really a Scout, never had the time for that sort of thing, but he didn't need to know that. "Of course, if you don't convince me, I'll do everything in my power to stop you." Especially since I was apparently part of the package deal with the hospital-cartel-bomb-thing. Of course I had a vested interest in stopping him.

Eddington looked at me for a long moment. Then he nodded slowly. "I guess that's fair enough."

I grinned mentally and shifted position again. Stupid leg. _The gauntlet's laid. Let the battle begin._ "So. If you don't want to do this, why are you?"

He blinked. "Because it has to be done."

I rolled my eyes at that. "_Right_," I said, laying the sarcasm on as thickly as I could.

"And because the stand must be made."

Oh, great. One of _those_. I really hated fanatics. Generally speaking, they were impossible to talk down. But then again... I _had_ seen a few cracks in his facade, just enough to make me wonder if the good ol' shock treatment might work. If it didn't, well, I had other tricks up my sleeve. And to think, we'd been getting along so well.

I made eye contact. "Ok. Fine, then. Hit the switch. Blow us all up. And I guarantee that as soon as they finish scraping off the walls, it'll be business as usual."

"Maybe." He gave me that quirky half-smile. "But at least, I'll have made a stand. And with what you're leaning against, at least I'll have taken you out with me."

Okay, not exactly a good way to confirm the suspicion that I was leaning against the bomb. Which was still ticking. However, there was nothing I could really do about that until I got my hands free. And to do that, I needed to keep him occupied – or get him to free me. My lockpicks had literally been in my other clothes. I had, after all, originally been wearing a _hospital gown_ when all this had started. Before I'd managed to get Leslie to agree to let me wear something more... dignified.

"Yeah. _Maybe_." I shrugged. "But whatever message you're trying to send will be drowned out in the voices of the innocent and the lives of everyone who wasn't supposed to be here. We're in a _hospital_, pal. How amenable are they gonna be to the killing of the sick and the weak?"

He shook his head. "Drowned out? How little you see." His confidence was seemingly unbroken. I really had to find some way to fix that. "But at least I will have made a stand. It will be enough," he added, "for at least one person to have _done_ something."

Oh, great, now he was getting philosophical – and maybe more fanatical. I had to get him off this topic fast. Maybe a little dose of reality would help. I doubted it – it rarely did for the rabid types – but you never knew. "Yeah," I nodded sagely, barely resisting the urge to roll my eyes. "You'll have done something all right. You'll have ended up in a body bag. Meanwhile, your accomplices get arrested, it becomes the next 15-second TV spot, and then the next news item comes on. It happened, or didn't happen, as far as media reports go, and what changes? Nothing. The world keeps spinning. So go ahead. Push the button. I dare you." I smiled unpleasantly. "No, I _double dog dare ya_ to do it, and let's see how much the world changes as a result."

He stared at me. I could almost see him take a mental step back. "You really want me to push it?"

"No. I'm just trying to prevent the stupid waste of life I see on the job every day. Your's included."

"By telling me to die."

"No," I corrected, shaking my head. "I'm telling you to _live_, damn it. I didn't become a cop to watch people die."

Eddington frowned. "Ah, but you won't be watching people die. You'll be dying along with me. In fact, you'll be dead before I will."

I shrugged, trying to ignore the feeling that talking to this guy was worse than talking to Alfred and Bruce combined. I persevered anyway. The word "surrender" wasn't really in my vocabulary. "Same principle. I didn't become a cop to watch people throw away their lives for a useless purpose. You do this, and what use does it serve? Just think about that for a minute."

I settled back and made a show of getting comfortable for the long haul – I could tell that this guy was going to take a while to convince – and tried not to think about the fact that I was settling back against a _bomb_ of all things;. It was just the latest incident in a twisted day. A _really_ twisted day.

He got up and paced the room. It was hard not to notice that he kept shifting the gun so it stayed facing me, no matter where he was. For all his agitation, it was clear he wasn't forgetting the difference between us. Obviously, I needed to work on him some more.

Finally, after maybe five minutes of pacing (and carefully avoiding the windows), he turned to face me. "So. You save lives."

"Pretty much."

His gaze suddenly sharpened and he stared at me shrewdly, his finger caressing the trigger. "What about your own?"

"Mine? No." I grinned at him, suddenly thinking of long nights in the Kevlar suit. "In my line of work, that's just a bonus."

Eddington cocked his head to the side, looking at me half-puzzled, half-bemused. "So, what? You want to die or something?"

"Me? Want to die?" I shook my head. "Nope. Right now, all I want is to get rid of these cuffs," I moved my hands a little away from the pipe and shook them lightly to reinforce my point, "but I know _that's_ not going to happen, so I'd be more than happy to settle for some painkillers, maybe even an antipyretic or two."

He actually paused and looked at me. I could virtually see the cogs shifting. "Antipyretic? You have a fever?"

I snorted. "Hey, this is a hospital. What did you expect? A picture of health?"

His eyes narrowed at me again. Probably because of the sarcasm. Had to watch that. Then he surprised me again. "That's really all the painkillers and antipyretic are for? Just your... fever?"

The idiot was actually _considering_ it? More fool him, then. "I'm fighting an bad infection in my leg," I explained, "which is why I've got a bit of a fever. And a headache." Okay, so it was more than a 'bit' of a fever, and I've had concussions which have given me nicer headaches. So sue me. I still wanted to be alive when this was all said and done, so it was worth my while to under-sell my state of health. Historically, unstable gunmen had a record of getting rid of sick hostages the messy and permanent way, which was something I wanted to avoid. I was kind of attached to my head.

His lips quirked. "And here I thought the crutch and braces were for show. So what about the rest?"

After a quick moment's thought, I held up my hands again, and wriggled the one in the latex glove. "See this? Its to prevent my spreading the infection by touch. Or so they told me. I mean, what do I know? I'm a cop, not a doctor." I figured there'd be no harm in playing up a little on the BPD's reputation of incompetence. At best, he'd underestimate my intelligence, which could always come in handy at some point. And at worst, he wouldn't underestimate anything and I'd still be no worse off for trying.

"And the other hand?"

I shrugged. "It was splinted at the time. No need for a glove." I decided not to mention that I couldn't move my fingers on that hand anyway, with or without a splint.

He frowned. "Splints?"

"Yeah, splints. You know, those hard things that keep you from bending a limb? The ones your friend Smokes took? Broken hand from Diablo."

Eddington snorted and looked at me appraisingly. "You know, you're not like most cops we encounter. I usually get bluster, threats, intimidation, or some kind of meek subservience that makes me want to throw up. Or shoot them. They act like they don't, but I always _know_ they fear me." He tilted his head a little and looked at me thoughtfully. "Instead, you're giving me sarcasm, jokes, defiance." The implication in that was clear. He didn't know quite how to react to me, or read what I was feeling.

_Way to play the helpless hostage card, Grayson._ And I could either try to bury the sarcasm – yeah, and I'd been doing a real stellar job of that so far – or keep rolling the dice and see what happened. No prizes for guessing which choice I made. I never did like being helpless or predictable. "Yeah, well, I kinda failed the 'How To Be A Hostage' part of my academy training." Deliberately, but he didn't need to know that.

Eddington snorted again. "So? What good does that information do me? All that precious academy of yours is good for is flower arranging, in my experience. Like I said, wimps and cowards. If I had a choice, that's one building I'd blow up."

I frowned, as pieces of the puzzle suddenly fell into place. "So, why don't you?"

He froze. "Why don't I do what? Blow it up?"

I shook my head. "No. Why don't you have a _choice_?"

If anything, Eddington held even stiller. "I never said that."

"Yes you did. Just now." I narrowed my eyes. Maybe if I went with the more explosive question, he'd give me an answer to a minor one. "But we'll get back to that. If you're not in charge of blowing this building up, who is?"

He jerked back and stared at me, eyes wide. "I—What?"

Time to play another card. "And while we're on the subject, what're the consequences if you don't go along with it?"

He narrowed his eyes. "One consequence will be _your_ death if you don't _shut up_!" He hesitated. Looked away. Looked back. Shifted slightly so his back was to the door. '_The cartel,_' he mouthed.

I just nodded, even as I met his eyes as best I could considering my arms were kind of in the road. _Message received and understood._ It was twofold, really. Eddington wasn't just doing this because the cartel had some kind of hold on him; whoever was in charge obviously had some means of keeping tabs on what was going on in the hospital. For all I knew, they were tracking every single word and action. It explained why he'd continually played the lunatic-fanatic card; it was a good way to hide his real feelings. _But that meant..._

I let my eyes drift to the security camera over the door and back. Eddington gave me the briefest of nods.

Well. That certainly changed everything. If the cartel was hooked in to the security system _along with_ Oracle...

They had to be. Oracle was the only explanation for how the pictures of the gunmen got out to the GCPD so quickly and from there to the media. Both Eddington's very real fear and that earlier text message could be explained by someone from the cartel's IT department piggybacking somehow on Oracle's activity, and keeping watch on everything as well. It was, frankly, disturbing that Oracle hadn't picked it up.

_Unless they were already there when she hooked up._ Which would mean that they'd been watching for... a long time. Perhaps as long as I'd been here, or maybe even longer.

Now _that_ was a disturbing thought. How far had the cartel's tentacles reached?

That was when I noticed it. I closed my eyes for a moment and slowly opened them. _Nope, still happening._ The camera I'd pointed out to Eddington earlier had a small light beneath it. It was blinking. And unless I was much mistaken, it was blinking in the Bat-Code. Oracle was watching us. For all it good it did me.

U-O-K-? D-B- -G-G-H

Despite myself, I felt my mouth twitch. 'DB' was a Titan nickname for Batman. It stood for 'Daddy Bat.' So apt, _and_ it was easy to communicate in code. I had to admit, it was kind of comforting to know that Bruce was working with the GCPD on the outside.

I leaned my head back against the bomb, as if I was resting, and flicked the fingers of my good hand quickly. I had something far more important to communicate than the state of my own health.

B-A-C-K-D-O-O-R

I had to mentally laugh at the response.

?-M-F-I-N-E

Obviously someone had done a quick security check and hadn't thought too much about what she was actually _doing_ for once.

C-A-M-E-R-A-S

The response took a lot longer. Oracle had obviously been caught napping on this one.

K-F-X-D. H-W-K-N-W-?

And she was apparently prone to dropping vowels when annoyed. _She who knows all... except when she doesn't. _And seeing as the full explanation would take too long, especially using only one hand...

2-L-N-G. W-H-T-D-O?

C-U-T-W-L-O-O-P

I frowned. She'd looped the cameras to whoever had been on the other end of that backdoor into her systems. It added another layer of complications I didn't really need. Sooner or later, they were going to notice. I'd just have to be ready for it when it came, and hope like anything that I'd talked Eddington around by then.

Speaking of which...

I refocused on the room, just as Eddington knelt in front of me, back once more to the camera. "What are you doing?"

_Play innocent, Grayson._ I blinked and pulled on my best little-boy look. "What do you mean?"

"You kind of... zoned on me for a moment there. So. What are you doing?"

I couldn't help it. Call it exhilaration, recklessness, or maybe the fever. I grinned at him and told him the truth. "Taking care of the camera problem."

"I—you—what?"

I leaned forward as much as I could, which, sadly, wasn't very far. "It's... I have friends on the outside. They just took care of the camera problem. We can talk freely." For as long as the loop went unnoticed, at least.

He stared at me. "You can guarantee this."

I nodded. "On my honor." Or rather, on my faith in a world-class hacker, but that was harder to explain in the time I had. And besides, Officer Grayson technically didn't know any hackers.

To my surprise, he closed his eyes, bowed his head, and _relaxed_. It made me realize exactly how tense he'd been through this whole thing. "Then I think its time I told you what's really happening."

Finally.

* * *

TBC

_**Next/Teaser:**_ It's not what you think.

_Go ahead. Guess. :) Let's see if we match up...  
_


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